


Gravity

by janewestin



Series: cosmos [1]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Complete, F/F, First Time, Happily Ever After, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2020-12-28 07:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21132677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janewestin/pseuds/janewestin
Summary: An unexpected email reunites Andy with her past. Set 10 years post-DWP.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Write write write write write hooray
> 
> (Because I am a self-indulgent asshole here are a couple of doodles I did from this very fic https://thejanewestin.tumblr.com/post/188674288597/because-i-am-a-self-indulgent-asshole-here-are-a )

Is that the name you're meant to have 

For me to call?

_Gravity (Vienna Teng)_  


_***_

Andy Sachs was not a scientist. 

She felt that this was an important point to make, particularly in the weekly staff meetings, when the scientific editors’ discussion of the latest endosymbiont or cytokine or whatever devolved into semi-hysterical PubMed searches and emphatic data-set thumping. Eventually, after they’d worn themselves out squawking at each other, they’d turn to her to tie-break. 

“Guys,” she’d say. “I am  _ not a scientist. _ ”

But she was the  _ managing  _ editor, and despite having a pay grade  _ significantly  _ below that of the Ph.D.s in the room, it somehow fell to her to figure out which of the six nearly-identical Figure 1s to use. 

“Your problem is you’re too capable,” Trixie said, examining the underside of her coffee mug with an expression that was half interest and half revulsion.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Andy closed her laptop and scrubbed both hands over her aching eyeballs. “Are you ready to go?”

“What do you suppose this is?” Trixie held the mug out to Andy, bottom-side first, where a wad of something grayish-blue was firmly affixed.

Andy made a face. “Walt’s gum,” she said.

Trixie shuddered. “I was afraid you’d say that,” she said. She reached over and put the mug onto Walt’s desk. “That dude is a sociopath. I can’t believe I dated him.”

“Stop.” Andy let Trixie pull her to her feet. “I can’t handle any romantic navel-gazing tonight. I need ravioli.”

They stopped at Trattoria Giulia on the way home, stomping their feet on the cracked sidewalk in a vain defense against the icy night wind as they waited at the window. 

“Whoever thought a spaghetti counter was a good idea—” Trixie started.

“Was a genius,” Andy finished, tearing into her bag and finding a breadstick. She crammed half of it into her mouth while they walked the rest of the way home. 

“SVU?” Trixie asked, once they were ensconced in their apartment. 

“Nyet,” Andy said, finding a spoon in the pile of dirty dishes in the sink and wiping it on a dish towel. “Too tired. Going to eat ravioli in bed and pass out.”

Trixie flopped on the couch. “Suit yourself.”

Andy managed to splatter minimal tomato sauce on the bedspread, which was pretty good for ten o’clock at night, she thought. She scrolled through emails as she chewed. Submission, submission, submission, submission. The journal was pretty successful, even though its impact factor would never break the threes. And she liked her job. It wasn’t the hard-hitting journalism career she’d envisioned when she’d graduated from college, but it was good, satisfying work. 

It  _ was _ a little funny, actually, that she’d taken such a roundabout route to end up right back in New York. It had started with a little job in Boston—editing press releases for a medical journal—and when she and Nate had ended it a year later, she’d moved back to Ohio. A colleague from the Boston journal had put a good word in for her in Cincinnati. Eighteen months after she’d started, the whole publication had moved to Queens, and they’d taken her with them. Trixie’s claim that she was too capable had served her pretty well, all things considered, and she’d been promoted to managing editor just before her thirty-first birthday.

Submission, submission, submission. All things that could be handled at the office tomorrow. She scrolled faster. 

And then she saw a name. 

Andy’s thumb slammed on her phone screen so hard she accidentally minimized her mail app.  _ “Fuck, _ ” she muttered, opening it again, and there it was, in bold Helvetica Neue. 

Every cell in Andy’s body seemed to turn to ice. 

_ EXTERNAL _ , the email said.  _ Submission _ . 

And the name above it:

Cassidy Priestly.

***

They’d be twenty-two now. It was hard to fathom—her brain had put them into a kind of temporal lock, freezing them eternally as bratty twelve-year-olds. She’d spent more time than she cared to admit Googling Miranda, but she had sort of forgotten about the twins.

Cassidy didn’t have a LinkedIn, but Caroline did. She was following in her mother’s footsteps, apparently—her current position was listed as  _ Photography Intern, Elias-Clark.  _ She looked like a younger, freckled Miranda, all cheekbones and chin and that aquiline nose. Heavy eyeliner. No smile.

Andy flipped back to Cassidy’s submission. It was a PDF, too small to read on her phone, so she put the ravioli container on her nightstand and reached for her laptop. Cassidy was the first author, so she would have done the bulk of the writing. The last name listed was a Ph.D. at Columbia. It was a name she’d seen in print a number of times, although never at Cellular Function. 

Andy read. For a moment, absorbed in the text, she allowed herself to forget the paper’s author. It was a descriptive study on regulatory kinesins in microtubules, and although it was quite a bit more specialized than what the journal usually published, the writing was good and the design seemed solid. She skimmed enough to decide which of her colleagues should review it, deidentified it, and forwarded it to Rashad. Her hands, she realized, had become ice-cold. 

She felt  _ nervous _ . 

It was a strange, foreign feeling, like someone had whooshed her consciousness back into her twenty-three-year-old body. She felt exactly like she had for the entirety of the almost-year at Runway, and she knew exactly why.

_ Miranda _ .

She wouldn’t be the one to decide whether or not the paper would be accepted—that was Rashad’s job, and he’d review it blindly, without knowing the authors. But it would be her name on the letter. She could just imagine Cassidy presenting a rejection to her mother. Would she remember Andy?

She wondered, briefly, if it was possible to recuse herself from a submission, as an attorney might recuse herself from a case in which there was a conflict of interest. Oh, God. If the paper got rejected, she was going to have to quit her job. 

_ No.  _ She shook herself. What was she thinking? Cellular Function had nothing to do with Runway. There was absolutely no overlap between scientific journals and fashion writing. Miranda reigned over Elias-Clark, sure; her reach might even extend to print media beyond New York. But Andy would bet her left pinky that no one in her current sphere—besides Trixie, of course—even knew who Miranda Priestly  _ was _ .

She swallowed her anxiety with a few more bites of her now-cold ravioli. Old habits, it turned out, died hard. 

She showered, turned off the lights, and climbed into bed, but sleep was a long time coming.

***

The paper did not get accepted. 

Andy had known it wouldn’t. Upon closer reading the following morning, it really was too specialized for their applied-science journal. More suited for Experimental Cell or Developmental Immunology. Three weeks after she sent it to Rashad, she got the email back that it had been rejected.  _ Fuck _ .

She copy-pasted the rejection template into an email reply to Cassidy and her coauthors, staring at it for a long time as she chewed on her thumbnail. It was a good study. It would surely be accepted at a different journal, and she could come up with four or five off the top of her head. 

Cassidy’s mentor would know that. She was undoubtedly accustomed to rejections, and would have a list of next choices to which the article would be submitted. 

And yet.

It wasn’t exactly forbidden to deviate from the standard reply, nor was it exactly forbidden to give recommendations for future submissions. But in her seven years at the publication, Andy had never done so; had never seen the need. Now, though, she  _ wanted _ to, and she had the uncomfortable realization that it wasn’t because she worried about Cassidy’s disappointment. 

It was because she was worried about  _ Miranda’s _ .

She didn’t want Miranda to see Andy’s name at the bottom of that letter and think that Andy was responsible for her daughter’s failure to appear in the journal she’d selected. After all this time, after everything Miranda had put her through, she didn’t want to let Miranda down.

She sent the template off to Cassidy, just as she’d done for the past seven years, with no additional commentary or suggestions. Then she did something that was either exceptionally kind or exceptionally stupid: she opened her personal email and sent Cassidy a message. 

_ Dear Ms. Priestly: _

_ Thank you for your submission to Cellular Function. Although your work was not accepted, the writing was — _ what? Andy thought. Good? No, it was better than good, although Cassidy’s youth and inexperience showed.  _ The writing was more than acceptable. Please consider submitting to the following journals. _

She listed the five she could think of—she had friends at three of them—thanked Cassidy again for her work, and sent the email before she could think better of it.

Probably exceptionally stupid, she decided, immediately after the soft  _ whoosh _ of the message zooming away. She had no doubt that her boss would have something to say about her endorsement of journals other than their own. 

She wondered if Cassidy would tell Miranda about it. The thought made her feel unsettled and uneasy—and, although she didn’t like to admit it to herself, just the tiniest bit hopeful.

***

Cassidy’s reply that afternoon was just one sentence, and Andy’s burst of laughter was so loud that Trixie jumped and glared at her.

_ ANDREA SACHS IS THAT YOU? _

Well. Maybe not so stupid after all.

_ It’s me _ , she typed back.  _ Surprised you remember. _

The response this time was almost instantaneous.  _ Of course! Harry Potter! Are you still in the city? Let’s have coffee.  _ And her phone number. 

The immediate familiarity, such a stark contrast to her mother’s standoffishness, took Andy slightly aback. At least the brevity was familiar. 

_ Sure _ , she sent back. Which was why, two days later, she was sitting in a Starbucks on the Columbia campus, waiting to greet someone she had thought she’d never see again.

Cassidy arrived at precisely five-thirty, saw Andy at once, and beamed. “Oh my God,” she said.

Andy got to her feet. Cassidy didn’t quite hug her, but she took Andy’s hand in both of hers and pulled her in for an air-kiss near Andy’s cheek. The residue of high society, Andy supposed.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” Cassidy exclaimed. Her blue eyes were sparkling behind outsized tortoiseshell glasses. Her bright copper hair had been cropped into a shaggy lob, and she was wearing clothes that Andy was fairly certain Miranda would hate: a gigantic Columbia sweatshirt, leggings, and beat-up Ugg boots. A messenger bag with a seat-belt strap was slung over her shoulder. She looked every inch the graduate student. 

“I’m sorry about your paper,” Andy said by way of greeting.

Cassidy waved a dismissive hand and dropped into the armchair across from Andy’s. “Don’t worry about it. Aisha has a publication plan that’s sixteen journals deep for everything she puts her name on.”

Andy felt a little silly at that, since in her mind’s eye, she had only really seen the disappointed face of a young adolescent. “Oh. Good,” she said lamely.

“Your email was so nice,” Cassidy added quickly. “I really appreciated it.” She slid her bag off her shoulder and dropped it on the floor, and as she did so, Andy saw the flash of a small diamond on the ring finger of her left hand.

Cassidy followed her gaze, and for a moment, Andy saw the impish twinkle of so many years ago. She held her hand up and waggled her fingers. “Two months ago,” she said, grinning wickedly. “He’s an engineer. Mom was  _ pissed _ .”

Andy laughed, even as something in her chest twinged at the mention of Miranda. “I can only imagine.”

It was a nice visit—really nice, Andy thought, after Cassidy had left for class. She’d learned a lot about the twins’ lives. Cassidy was, as she’d assumed, in a Ph.D. program in microbiology. Caroline had graduated from the Tisch photography school. They didn’t live together, but their apartments were three blocks apart, and Cassidy was thinking of moving in with the fiancé after her lease was up. 

What she didn’t mention—what Andy desperately wanted to ask, but didn’t dare—was anything about Miranda, other than a brief roll of her eyes when she mentioned “cohabitation.”

She didn’t say if Miranda was still in the townhouse, if she’d remarried, if she was happy. She’d be fifty-six in November; was she still the formidable figure of a decade ago, or had she softened with age?

Cassidy hadn’t said; had carefully avoided the topic at all. Andy had the feeling that there was a lot about Cassidy’s life these days that Miranda didn’t know. So she doubted, very much, that Cassidy would mention their meeting to Miranda.

And she couldn’t quite decide if that knowledge brought relief or disappointment.

***

Cassidy texted her the following week— _ favor to ask.  _ It turned out she was writing two other papers and wondered if Andy would look over them before she submitted, if she had time. 

Andy  _ didn’t _ have time, but she had liked seeing Cassidy and wanted her to do well. And she had to admit, it gave her a sort of gleeful satisfaction to see the apple falling so far from the polished-gleam tree. 

They met two more times at the Starbucks, this time for revisions. The engineer fiancé, Patrick, stopped by the second time. He was sweet to Cassidy, and cheerfully greeted Andy, and for a moment Andy remembered how in love she’d been with Nate at twenty-two. She hoped Patrick and Cassidy would last. 

The fourth time they met, Cassidy arrived looking pale and terrified. “I’m sorry—” she got out, just before the door swung open and Miranda stepped inside.

Andy froze. 

The Chanel sunglasses rotated slowly and stopped at Andy. One eyebrow crept up. 

“I don’t know how she knew it was you—” Cassidy hissed, as Miranda took slow, deliberate steps toward them. Her cheeks were bright pink. “I’m really sorry.”

“Andrea.” Miranda’s voice, cool and aloof, unchanged in ten years. 

Andy realized she was standing. When had she stood up? Her heart was hammering so hard she could feel it in her toes. 

Miranda looked— _ well _ . Miranda looked amazing. It was still cool enough, in early April, for outerwear, and Miranda’s black fitted coat cut a silhouette far too classy for a college campus coffee shop. A white silk scarf was knotted at her throat—Hermès, no doubt. Her lips were pale pink, a shade entirely at odds with her terrifying deportment. Heads turned. 

“Miranda,” Andy managed to say. Her voice sounded strangled. 

Miranda lowered herself elegantly into the chair next to Cassidy’s, as though it was completely normal for the editor-in-chief of the biggest fashion magazine in the industry to be hanging around with graduate students and aspiring playwrights. She tipped her chin down just a little—just enough for Andy to meet her ice-blue gaze. “So you’re the mysterious proofreader,” she murmured, her expression entirely unreadable. 

Cassidy collapsed back into her chair and put her face in her hands. “Why are you like this,” she groaned.

Miranda appeared not to notice. “Sit, please, Andrea.”

Andy sat. 

“Cassidy, bobbsey,” Miranda said, removing her sunglasses and placing them on the crumb-dusted table, “be a darling and get Mummy a latte, won’t you?” 

“Oh my  _ God _ ,” Cassidy said, with an adolescent flounce, but she got up and went to the counter. 

Andy couldn’t think.  _ Literally _ couldn’t think. How many times had she imagined this scene—reuniting with Miranda, apologizing for her phone-tossing temper tantrum and for her epic Parisian storm-out? Garnering Miranda’s forgiveness? Maybe, heaven help her, even earning a little of Miranda’s respect for the place she’d carved out for herself in publishing? She was, after all, an editor now too. 

But despite herself, she was just sat here, dumbly staring at the woman whose presence loomed so large in her life even now, and she couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

Fortunately, Miranda didn’t seem to require much of a response. Or any, for that matter. 

“Cassidy’s happiness is of utmost importance to me,” Miranda said softly.

Well, duh. “Right,” Andy said blankly. 

“She is an extremely driven young woman.” Miranda’s eyes darted momentarily toward her daughter, who was now nibbling on a pink cake pop as she waited for the latte. Then they fixed back on Andy, “And her drive has taken her into a field about which I know very little.”

_ I’ll say _ . Still, Andy was surprised that Miranda was willing to admit any gap in her knowledge, no matter how obvious. She tried to keep her expression neutral, to avoid reinforcing Miranda’s assertion and possibly causing offense. 

“You, Andrea,” Miranda continued, not quite meeting Andy’s gaze, “are in the unique position to influence my daughter’s career more than I.”

_ Ah. _

So that was it. Miranda wanted to make sure she didn’t fuck up Cassidy’s trajectory. Of course that was what it was. She had no interest in Andy’s apology, no interest in Andy’s life. 

Caught between dismay and indignation, Andy straightened her spine. “Look, Miranda,” she said, “I may not be walking the red carpet, but I’m good at my job. I’m not going to crash her plane into the mountain, okay?”

Something that looked like surprise flashed across Miranda’s face, but before she could respond, Cassidy appeared at her elbow. “Your latte, your majesty,” she said, setting the cup onto the table. 

Miranda’s expression morphed into a gracious smile. “Thank you, my love,” she said, reaching for her sunglasses. “I’ll let you two work, shall I?” She stood without a second glance at Andy, taking her coffee, and kissing the air beside Cassidy’s head before gliding out the door to her waiting car.

Cassidy looked mortified. “What did she say? Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

“It’s fine.” Andy’s heart rate was starting to come back down into the normal range. “Don’t worry about it.” Although she still felt flushed and angry at the implication that she was going to —what? Get Cassidy blacklisted from Cell? Keep her from a tenure-track position? 

“I’m sorry,” Cassidy said again, miserably. 

“Seriously,” Andy said. “Stop. Let’s just finish this draft, okay?”

***

_ Andrea, _

_ I would appreciate a meeting. Wednesday at The Modern, 8pm? _

“What the fuck,” Andy muttered.

What did that even mean?  _ I would appreciate a meeting. _ “Well, I would appreciate a raise and an extra six weeks of vacation,” Trixie said, when Andy spun the laptop toward her emphatically. “Are you going to go?”

“I mean—” Andy flopped her hands helplessly at her side. She didn’t particularly relish the idea of an encore of the Starbucks conversation. At the same time, the brief interaction had reminded her why she sought—why she  _ craved— _ Miranda’s approval way back then. 

Of course, a few other things had come to light in the past few years, as well.

After she and Nate had reconciled and she’d made the move to join him in Boston, he had been so  _ happy _ . The new job. A bigger apartment. He’d brought her flowers every week on his way home from the restaurant. Andy had blamed her diminishing interest—and libido—on depression: she’d been unable to find a position with any of the local newspapers, not even in Classifieds, and she refused to call Runway for a reference. Miranda had already handed her one favor and she would  _ not  _ be further beholden. When she finally landed the little position at the medical journal, she  _ did _ feel better, but something with Nate had been irrevocably lost. 

There was a girl at the journal. Her name was, improbably, Logan, and she had close-cropped hair and graceful wrists. 

Andy would gaze at the ceiling while Nate groaned and sweated against her, and she would think about those wrists. She started to close her eyes when Nate kissed her. The feeling of his stubble against her skin made her flinch.

Nate wasn’t obtuse. “Is there someone else?” he’d asked.

_ No, of course not _ , she’d said, and there hadn’t been, even though her thoughts had wandered long ago to arms, and shoulders, and the brush of short auburn curls against the curve of a downy neck.

He asked, and she protested. Again and again, for months, until one day he stopped asking, stopped trying to touch her at all. When she told him she was leaving, he didn’t look surprised.

She kissed a woman for the first time two days after her twenty-sixth birthday, both of them happily tipsy in the middle of the dance floor of a downtown Cincinnati nightclub. Andy hadn’t even gotten her name, but the following morning, lying in bed with a screaming hangover, she thought a lot of things in her life had just become a whole lot clearer.

It had taken Trixie’s droll observation after her third date in a week—“You definitely have a type”—to make Andy realize that there was a huge, terrifying reason that she had tried so hard to curry Miranda’s favor.

“I wanted to sleep with my boss,” she told Trixie over the phone, at three in the morning on a Wednesday. 

Trixie’s voice was thick with sleep, but she sounded shocked nonetheless. “ _ Cheryl _ ?” she said.

“ _ No _ .” Andy put her hand over her eyes. “Miranda.”

“Oh.” The shock dissipated. “Yeah, dude, you and everyone else.”

Andy blinked. “Really?”

“Yes.” Trixie sounded like she was rolling her eyes. “Hot and mean? Duh. I’m going back to sleep.”

***

“So are you?”

Andy blinked. “What?”

Trixie pointed at the screen. “Going to meet Miranda.”

“Oh.” Andy turned the laptop back toward herself. “Um. I don’t know. I guess so. Yeah.”

“Good thing you have two days to make up your mind,” Trixie said, sounding amused, and turned back to her own computer.

Would she go? Of course she would go. Any uncertainty was pretense. 

She sent back one word.

_ Yes _ .


	2. Chapter 2

This is the same place

No, not the same place

_ Gravity (Vienna Teng) _

***

Andy arrived early. Out of memory, or habit. 

The restaurant was clearly out of Andy’s price range, and a surprising choice, for Miranda. Or at least for the Miranda of ten years ago, who’d liked tablecloths and flower arrangements and had a certain level of disdain for minimalism and modern art. Perhaps she was evolving. 

Andy debated the merits of allowing herself to be seated before Miranda’s arrival and decided against it, instead standing by the door like an idiot and watching for the town car. Did Roy still drive her? She hadn’t seen who was at the wheel that day at Starbucks. 

She brushed at her clothing, feeling simultaneously self-conscious and annoyed with herself for feeling self-conscious. She’d shed her designer wardrobe piece by piece over the past ten years, and the one item she’d kept—the pair of thigh-high Chanel boots—was hardly appropriate for anywhere outside of the halls of Runway. She’d opted tonight for all black—a black turtleneck, black leggings, black knee-high boots. The one splash of color was the crimson lipstick she’d put on just before she left the apartment. She looked nice, but she didn’t look _ Miranda- _ nice. It was so fucking ridiculous that she _ still _ wanted so badly to impress Miranda. 

Or maybe, she thought grimly, she still just wanted Miranda, full stop.

A flurry of motion caught her eye, and she looked over to see one of the hosts leap to his feet and scrabble for the door. He swung it open, and Miranda stepped inside.

Why was it, Andy wondered, that Miranda’s very presence seemed to suck the air out of the room? Or at the very least, out of Andy’s lungs?

“Andrea,” Miranda said, ignoring the host, who was clearly trying to decide if he should ask for her coat. 

Andy gave her a little smile and a wave that she hoped didn’t look too awkward. “Hi, Miranda.”

The host gave up hovering at her elbow. “Thank you for joining us, Ms. Priestly. Let me show you to your table.”

He had just taken a few steps ahead of Miranda when she whipped her coat off and tossed it at him. Flustered, he fumbled, and would have dropped it had Andy not swiftly stepped forward. The coat hit her hands, the fabric soft and impossibly light. Miranda’s perfume puffed against her skin. She was suddenly lightheaded.

“Thank you,” the young man said gratefully, recovering his balance and pulling the coat out of Andy’s hands. She resisted the bizarre urge to snatch it back and bury her face in it. _ Damn _ it. She was really and truly screwed.

Miranda rolled her eyes and brushed past both of them, heading toward a table she clearly frequented. If she had snapped at Andy to hurry along, it would have come as no surprise. Old habits, et cetera.

“Pellegrino,” Miranda ordered without looking up, as soon as they were seated. 

“Tap water,” Andy said to the waiter, sounding apologetic and hating herself for it. 

Miranda didn’t lift her eyes from the menu. She also didn’t say a word. 

Two minutes went by. Miranda shifted her gaze from the menu to the dramatically-lit sculpture garden.

Three minutes. 

Then four.

At the five-minute mark, Andy put her menu down. “Miranda,” she said.

Miranda blinked once, slowly. Andy saw her take a long breath. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought Miranda was—what? Preparing herself?

“I owe you an apology,” Miranda said, still looking out the window, and Andy almost fell off her chair. 

“Um,” she said. “What?”

Miranda lifted her chin and gave Andy a sidelong glance. She looked almost obstinate. “It appears that I gave the impression that you were—less than competent—in your field of work,” she said, in a voice so quiet Andy had to lean forward to hear her. “It was not my intention.”

If Andy had had a sip of her water, she would have done a spit take all over Miranda. Some tiny part of her wanted to minimize Miranda’s apology, smooth over the unquestionable awkwardness of the entire exchange, but she _ had _been pissed at what Miranda had implied. 

“Thank you,” she said instead. 

Miranda did that slow blink again. She didn’t say anything for a moment, then: “I appreciate what you’re doing for Cassidy.”

Would wonders never cease. 

Andy lifted her shoulders and let them fall. “It’s fun,” she said. “You know, I’m not—I don’t get a chance to work with students that much.” 

She thought she was letting Miranda off the hook, that that would be the end of it, but Miranda was still talking. 

“You think,” she started, and paused. It was such a long pause that Andy thought for a moment she wasn’t going to continue. “You think you can guide your children. Set them on a path. Ensure their success with school, and the right people, and money.” Her voice was thoughtful, gentler then Andy had ever heard it. “And despite your best intentions, despite—despite everything—you find yourself completely unable, completely unequipped...”

She trailed off, closed her eyes for a moment, and then looked right at Andy. “You’ve done well for yourself,” she said.

Andy stared. “Thank you,” she said at last, dry-mouthed, unable to believe what she was hearing. Her cheeks were scorching. She thought her heart might just hammer out of her chest. Miranda’s expression was unguarded, frank, almost soft. Her lips parted as though she was about to say something else—

And then the waiter appeared at their table. “Ms. Priestly,” he said, placing a bewildering-looking egg dish in front of Miranda. A second waiter placed an identical dish in front of Andy.

_ Snap _, and the wall came back up. Miranda’s lips pursed ever so slightly, and then her expression smoothed into a graceful smile. She murmured her selections from the menu, and Andy gave hers, and then they just sort of...looked at each other.

In another life, Andy would have tried to find ways to fill the silence. Would have talked about her job, or Cassidy’s writing, or _ something _. 

She replayed Miranda’s words in her head. _ You’ve done well for yourself. _

She’d waited ten years to hear her say that, and damned if she was going to drown it out with her own endless chattering. 

Halfway through the tagliatelle, Andy set down her fork. 

“I should,” she said, and stopped. It appeared their conversation tonight would be a lot of false starts. And silence. _ Lots _ of silence. 

Miranda’s gaze swung to her, her expression disinterested, but her eyes sharp and bright. She waited. 

Andy looked down, feeling her cheeks heat up. She traced one finger across the tablecloth. “It’s overdue,” she said, and horrifyingly, her voice caught in her throat. She was literally choking on shame. “But I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. For, for Paris.” She steeled her nerves, then, and brought her gaze across the table. Up the planes and curves of Miranda’s torso, over her pale throat, her jaw, her lips. And finally to her eyes. 

She expected haughty vindication, the satisfaction of obtaining long-awaited reparations. She expected Miranda’s expression to be smug, at the very least. 

It wasn’t. 

Miranda was looking at her with her head tilted to one side, and that soft expression was back. Eyelids lowered. Lips relaxed. Brow unfurrowed. 

“I imagine,” she said quietly, “that you were making the best decisions you could with the resources you had at the time.”

Something in Andy went loose and warm. She felt her eyes sting, felt her breath catch in her throat. She hadn’t realized, until that moment, just how badly she had wanted Miranda’s forgiveness for walking out on her. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, and she couldn’t look at Miranda any longer. She blinked hard.

“Your stylist did well,” Miranda said, apropos of nothing. “A pixie cut suits you.”

That brought Andy back to herself, which, she imagined, was exactly what Miranda had intended. She brought one hand to her hair and smiled down into her pasta. “Thanks,” she said. 

“_ This, _ though—” Miranda caught Andy’s turtleneck sleeve between the tips of her index and middle fingers.

Andy laughed. “Target.”

Miranda shuddered visibly. “No.”

“‘Fraid so,” Andy said. “No freebies at Cellular Function, I’m afraid. Not unless you count PowerPoint templates.” She looked down. Miranda’s fingers were still there at her wrist, the black fabric caught between them. 

“Well.” Miranda let go, then brushed her fingertips over Andy’s arm and pulled back. “Perhaps Cassidy will find it in her heart to repay you with some of the wardrobe she no longer deigns to wear.” Incredibly, there was a smile playing around her lips.

Andy’s arm tingled where Miranda’s hand had touched it. Her cheeks were warm again, but not, now, from shame. 

“How’s Nigel?” she asked, too brightly. Hoping against hope that Miranda wouldn’t see the effect even this small kindness had on her. 

She did see, Andy was sure of it, but Miranda had far too much grace to acknowledge it. “Nigel,” she said, “is editor-in-chief of Elias-Clarke’s latest venture, Bespoke.”

“Men’s fashion?” Andy ventured, and Miranda gave a little Gallic shrug. 

“Lifestyle,” she said noncommittally. “He’s very happy, if overworked.” 

Andy could have laughed at that, given Nigel’s history of staying at Runway until the wee hours, but Miranda had done her a kindness and Andy intended to return it. “I should have kept in touch with him.”

Miranda arched an eyebrow. “I’m sure he’d be happy to see you, if you have the time.” She said it with just the slightest edge, as though she couldn’t resist a little dig at Andy for her _ important job _. 

Andy met her challenge head-on. “I always have time for the people who are important to me,” she said. 

Miranda’s gaze seemed to grow frostier for a nanosecond, and then something astonishing happened. 

She _ smiled _.

A real, actual smile. 

“Andrea,” she said, “I can hardly believe I’m saying this, but I’m rather glad you’ve found your way back to us.”

To _ us. _Andy glowed. Was Miranda manipulating her? 

Did she care?

“Yeah, well.” She bit her lower lip to contain her grin. “Guess you’ll have to see how Cassidy’s CV turns out.”

The smile didn’t falter. “I have every faith, Andrea.”

***

Miranda picked up the bill. Andy protested, even lunging across the table to make a grab for it (which earned a look of horror from Miranda, followed by one that could only be described as castigating), and her pleas to Venmo Miranda were met with a blank expression. 

“You don’t have to buy me dinner, Miranda,” Andy said, withdrawing to her own side of the table and feeling absurdly guilty. 

“There are,” Miranda said, handing her credit card and the bill to the waiter, “very few things I _ have _ to do, Andrea.” She gave Andy a stern look.

Andy got it. “Thank you,” she said. 

Miranda’s expression softened. “You’re very welcome.” 

“This was...” Andy let a smile creep over her face. “Nice. It was really nice.”

The waiter returned before Miranda had a chance to reply, but Andy didn’t mind. She followed Miranda out, to where the town car—it was still Roy, after all—was waiting at the curb. His eyes widened when he saw Andy, and his face broke into a smile. 

“Hi, Roy,” she said, as he hurried around to open Miranda’s door for her.

“Andy.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but Miranda was looking at Andy with an odd expression on her face. 

“I’ll catch the subway,” Andy said quickly, because it really had been a lovely evening, and she wanted to end it on her own terms. Miranda looked relieved. 

“Good night, Andrea,” she said, and got into the car.

Andy watched them round the corner, then headed for the subway. She smiled all the way home. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, guys. I am overwhelmed. I was not at ALL expecting such an amazingly lovely reception to my two little un-proofread chapters! I cannot thank you all enough for taking the time to start an unfinished fic (I know. Believe me, I know. I haven't left a work unfinished since 2002 and it only happened once. Barring something catastrophic, I *will* see this story to the end!), and for the kudos(es?), and for all your beautiful comments. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You've made this little writer's heart very happy. xx
> 
> (ps: taking the kids on vacation next week so there won't be an update for a while. don't worry!)

So don’t turn away now

I am turning in revolution

_ Gravity (Vienna Teng) _

_ *** _

“My mom’s having a party,” Cassidy said. 

Andy looked over the top of her computer. Cassidy removed her pen from where it was wedged between her glasses earpiece and her face—she had a weird habit of keeping it there when she was working, even though she rarely used it—and leaned back, folding her arms. 

“Okay,” Andy said. “And?”

“And she wants you to come.” Cassidy raised her eyebrows.

“Okay,” Andy said again. “Do _ you _ want me to come?”

A shrug. “Not my party.”

“Wow, thanks.” Andy rolled her eyes.

“That’s not what I meant,” Cassidy said, looking annoyed. “I just think that if she’s the one throwing it, she should invite her own guests.” 

_ Oh _. “Well, yeah. That’s reasonable,” Andy said, wondering if Cassidy had missed the part of college where you just sort of show up to things. 

“Of course I want you to come,” Cassidy added.

This was less than helpful. “Um, so.” Andy frowned. “Does that mean I’m invited, or...?” 

Cassidy leaned forward again and replaced her pen in her glasses. “No,” she said, turning her attention back to her laptop. “I’ll tell her to call you herself.”

***

“Andrea.” Miranda’s voice crackled over the phone. The call had come from an unfamiliar international number, so Andy assumed she must be abroad. 

“Hi, Miranda,” Andy said. They hadn’t spoken in the two weeks since dinner at the Modern, and the sound of Miranda’s greeting sent a pleasant little thrill up her spine. It felt somehow delightfully intimate, taking a call from her in bed on a Saturday morning. Particularly because there were no demands attached to it.

Miranda sounded significantly less excited to talk to Andy. “My daughters have informed me of my failure to adhere to etiquette regarding event invitations,” she said brusquely. “Are you available on Wednesday, June first?”

“Um.” Andy put Miranda on speaker and clicked on her calendar. No meetings scheduled, just her standing Zumba date with Trixie. “Yeah, I am.”

“Wonderful,” Miranda said. “I’ll have my assistant send you the details.” There was a pause as she cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, the timbre of her voice had lowered a little. “I’m. Well. It will be very nice to have you there, Andrea.”

Andy was very glad Miranda couldn’t see the grin on her face. “Right. Thanks.”

“Good bye.”

“Bye, Miranda.” 

When the email arrived ten minutes later, Andy dropped the phone on her face.

The burst of pain in her left eye wasn’t quite distracting enough to prevent her from immediately scrabbling on the sheets to recover the phone. She sat up, squinting at the screen, as though getting the words closer to her eyes would make them more comprehensible. It wasn’t just “a party,” as it turned out. It was the MOMA’s annual gala, and Miranda was hosting. A quick search of their website found Miranda on the board as of four years prior. Suddenly the dinner at the Modern made a _ lot _ more sense. 

“Are you _ kidding _ me?” Trixie screeched, as soon as Andy told her. Her gym bag and keys hit the floor of the foyer and she lunged for Andy’s phone. “Let me see. Let me _ see _. Unlock this!” 

Andy reached past Trixie and shut the apartment door, then punched in the four digits to unlock her iPhone. She opened the email and handed it over.

“Oh my God. Oh my God oh my God.” Trixie did a thrilled little jig. “I can’t believe this. You are so _ lucky _ ! What are you gonna wear? Are you going with anyone? If she lets you bring a plus one can I _ come _?” She was pop-eyed and pink with excitement.

Andy laughed. “I don’t know, I don’t know, and yes, of course.” She had actually spent the past two hours looking at gowns online. She didn’t think Target was going to fly at this one.

“You know this is MOMA’s answer to the Met Gala,” Trixie said, handing Andy her phone back. “They’re, like, arch-rivals.” 

Andy thought back to Miranda’s frequent spiky comments about a certain editor-in-chief whose named rhymed with Banna Bintour. “Oh, I know.” 

“We need to go shopping, like, immediately,” Trixie said, reaching for her purse. “Get your wallet. Put some pants on, for God’s sake.”

Andy looked down at her basketball shorts. “It’s not for over a month,” she pointed out.

“Exactly,” Trixie said, handing Andy her shoes. “We’re already late.”

***

“You didn’t tell me it was the Party in the Garden,” Andy said to Cassidy that evening, putting her bag down on their usual table. 

Cassidy made a _ mea culpa _ face at Andy’s accusatory expression. “I told you. Not my party.” 

“Trixie dragged me to every store on Fifth Avenue.” Hot tea sloshed over the back of Andy’s hand, and she winced and hurriedly set down her cup. She shook the burned hand. “Ow. I’m going to have to cash out my retirement account to even look halfway presentable.”

“Stop,” Cassidy said. “I have more event dresses than can fit in my apartment.”

That gave Andy pause. “Wait, really?”

“Of course, really.” Cassidy rolled her eyes. “Caroline’s been dragging me to these things since high school. You can _ have _ them, for all I care.”

“Wow.” Andy suddenly felt a lot better about attending the gala. “Thanks, Cassidy.”

“Don’t mention it.” Cassidy stuck her pen into her glasses. 

***

“I feel weird about this,” Andy said.

They were standing on the doorstep of Miranda’s townhouse. Cassidy was digging in her messenger bag for the keys.

“Why?” Cassidy said, hoisting the bag so she could basically stick her face into it. “Fuck. I think I forgot them.”

“I should think that would be obvious.” Andy reached over and unhooked Cassidy’s keys from where they were clipped onto a D-ring on the bag’s exterior. “Here.”

“Oops. Thanks.” She flipped through the keys and found one stamped with a Minnie Mouse design, then slid it into the lock. “She’s out of town anyway, I told you.”

The door opened, and Andy’s breath caught in her throat.

The townhouse had been repainted in the decade since she’d last been in it. The walls were cool blue and gray, the trim white. The carpet had been replaced with pale gray plank flooring. Since Miranda was away, there were no fresh-cut flowers on the tables. Still, it smelled the same—floral, airy, a hint of Miranda’s perfume. 

Cassidy leveled a dry glance at her that was all Miranda. “You have post-Miranda stress disorder or something? Come in.”

If only that was all it was, Andy thought, and followed Cassidy into the foyer. As she climbed the stairs, she remembered two ginger-haired imps doing their very best to get her in any kind of trouble. “Can you blame me? How many other assistants did you two get fired?” 

“I know for a fact you weren’t fired,” Cassidy said over her shoulder, stepping onto the third floor landing. “Mom was pissed at you for _ forever _.”

Andy’s stomach knotted. “Oh?” she said lightly.

“Oh, yeah.” She opened a door on the right and stepped inside. 

Andy looked around. Some empty-nesters—like her parents, for example—kept their adult children’s rooms exactly as they’d been when said children still lived at home. Not Miranda. Any shred of Cassidy had been neatly cleared away; it was basically a fancy guest room. The only evidence that she’d ever lived there was what looked like a junior microscope in the corner of the desk.

Cassidy was still talking as she opened the French doors of an enormous closet that was still filled with clothes. “Like, every time anyone screwed up for the next six months, it was _ Andrea would have _ this or _ Andrea could have _ that.” She chuckled.

The knot tightened. “Wow.”

“I was sad, honestly.” Cassidy pulled something long, black, and feathery from the closet and held it out to Andy. “I was just starting to like you. The Harry Potter thing was amazing. I didn’t appreciate it at the time.”

Andy took the dress. It was a Dior. “Might be a little..._ ruffly _,” she said.

“Yeah, maybe.” Cassidy handed her two more. “Try these.” 

Cassidy was shorter than Andy, and not quite as curvy, but the dresses zipped and she could wear flats. “I really appreciate this,” Andy said, turning in front of Cassidy’s full-length mirror to admire herself in an ivory Prabal Gurung with cut-outs along her ribs. It had been a _ very _ long time since she had worn couture, and although she was a little wrinklier, and a little greyer, and okay, the cut-outs might have been more flattering on a twenty-year old, she thought she looked pretty good. 

“Honestly, I’m just glad you’re going,” Cassidy said. She reached over and straightened a ruffle. “Any more, I’m out of my element. I go because Caroline wants me there, but...”

Andy thought of Cassidy’s beat-up Uggs and leggings, and also of the way she had air-kissed Andy when they’d first met, and half-believed her. “I get it,” she said. 

A door slammed downstairs.

Andy whirled around, her heart leaping into her throat. “You said she was out of town!” she hissed in horror.

Cassidy didn’t seem startled at all. “She is,” she said. “I mean, she’s supposed to be. Could be an assistant.” She got up from the bed and went to the hall. “Mom?”

Miranda’s voice floated up the stairs. “Bobbsey,” said, sounding surprised. “What are you doing here?”

Andy felt herself sliding into full panic mode. Her palms started to sweat, as did her underarms, which was horrible because this dress probably cost three months of her salary. She twined her arms behind her, scrabbling for the zipper. It was simultaneously too high and too low. “Don’t tell her I’m here,” Andy whisper-screamed to the back of Cassidy’s head, but she could hear the clack of Miranda’s heels ascending the stairs. 

Oh God, oh _ God _. She couldn’t believe Miranda was about to find Andy in her home, uninvited and barefoot in a nine thousand dollar dress. 

Cassidy had stepped into the hall. “Andy’s here,” she said, by way of greeting, and Andy could hear Miranda pull up short. Could hear Miranda’s soft sharp inhale through her nose. 

_ Fuck _. That was her cue, sweat or no sweat, panic or no panic. She stopped trying to reach the stupid zipper and followed Cassidy into the hall.

Miranda’s gaze landed on Andy. 

In the nanosecond before her expression fixed into annoyance, Andy saw something flash across her face. The briefest widening of her blue eyes. The tiniest part of her lips as she took a startled sip of air. 

Then her brow furrowed, and her lips pursed.

“Andrea,” she said frostily.

“I’m sorry,” Andy said. She felt mortified heat rise from her chest to her cheeks.

“Don’t be sorry,” Cassidy said sharply, taking Andy’s arm and hauling her back into her room. “I invited you.”

“This is still my house, Cassidy,” Miranda retorted, following them into the bedroom. 

“And this is still my closet,” Cassidy snapped, tossing three more dresses onto the bed without looking at her mother. 

This was quickly becoming painful in addition to mortifying. “Um,” Andy said, twisting her arm behind her again in a vain attempt at the zipper. “Cassidy, if you can help me out of this—” _ so I can stop being the cause of a family argument while standing in a ball gown—“ _I’ll get out of here.”

Cassidy glared at Andy, blue eyes flashing. “You’re still invited,” she growled, more like Miranda than Andy had ever seen her look. “We haven’t found you a dress yet.”

“And you won’t, in this closet,” Miranda interjected smoothly, stepping toward Andy. Andy jumped as she felt Miranda’s cool fingertips land lightly on her left shoulder and press. “Turn,” she said.

Andy turned, feeling her skin break out in goosebumps, hoping Miranda wouldn’t see. The fingertips lifted, and suddenly there was cool air on her back as Miranda slid the zipper down.

“Get dressed,” Miranda said, sounding remarkably calm for someone who had just given Andy severe hypertension and probably a small stroke. “Meet me downstairs.”

Her footsteps retreated out the door, which clicked gently closed behind her. Andy heard the soft click of her heels on the stairs. 

Andy could feel her pulse in her _ hair _. Her face was so hot she thought her head might actually spontaneously combust. 

“I cannot _ believe _ her,” Cassidy snarled behind her. She threw herself onto he bed on top of the pile of dresses and put both hands over her face. “I’m sorry, Andy.”

“No, uh.” Andy took a deep breath and went into the closet, half closing the door so she could let the dress fall from her shoulders. She reached for her own clothes. “It’s fine. She’s right.”

That was precisely the wrong thing to say, which Andy would have known if her brain was functioning at even a quarter capacity. 

“She is _ not _ right,” Cassidy exploded, and Andy heard the sound of both Cassidy’s palms smacking the mattress. “She comes in here like the queen of the fucking universe—I’m not ten years old, for fuck’s sake—” She smacked the bed again. “ _ Ughhhh _.”

“I’m sorry,” Andy said, her voice muffled behind her T-shirt as she pulled it over her head. She came out of the closet, yanking it into place.

Cassidy sighed deeply. “Not your fault,” she said, seeming to deflate. “I don’t know why I expect anything else from her. She’s just—” 

“La Priestly,” Andy supplied, and Cassidy snorted a rueful laugh. 

“Yeah. Guess so.”

Miranda was sitting at the kitchen table when they got downstairs. She arched an eyebrow at Andy’s t-shirt and jeans. “Cassidy,” she said, “thank you for your efforts. I think Andrea and I can take it from here.”

Cassidy’s eyes bulged. “You’re kidding me,” she said.

“Not at all.” Miranda appeared completely unruffled. “Andrea, would you accompany me to Runway? I believe we can find something for you in the Closet.”

“Mom, I swear—” A vein was standing out in Cassidy’s forehead. 

“Darling.” Miranda stood up and went to Cassidy, placing a swift and placating kiss on the side of her head. Her voice warmed. “I truly do appreciate it. But as you’ve said, Andrea is my guest, and if she requires a dress, then I would be delighted to help her find one.”

Cassidy’s lower lip was creeping out in what looked suspiciously like a pout, but the color had started to fade from her cheeks. “Fine,” she muttered crossly. She didn’t _ want _ to be mad at her mother, Andy saw. Wasn’t it funny, Andy thought, how a few well-placed gentle words, a loving little caress, could make her turn toward Miranda like a flower to the sun? 

She had that effect on people.

Cassidy looked from Miranda to Andy, as though she wanted to ask if Andy would be all right. “I’m very grateful,” Andy said quickly to Miranda. “And, um. I’m sorry again.”

Cassidy tucked the corner of her mouth in. “Okay,” she said to Andy. “I’ve got to get back to work anyway. Tuesday?”

“Tuesday,” Andy affirmed.

“I’ll send you the draft by Monday.” Cassidy hefted her messenger bag onto her shoulder and gave her mother one last truculent glance. “See you, Mom.”

“Bye, darling,” Miranda said, but she kept her gaze on Andy.

***

  



	4. Chapter 4

These are the scars that words have carved

on me

_ Gravity (Vienna Teng) _

***

There was silence in the house after Miranda closed the door behind Cassidy. Miranda didn’t turn to come back, and Andy didn’t move toward the front door. Maybe, Andy thought, Miranda was just as much at a loss for what to do next as Andy was. She even let herself entertain the insane idea, for a moment, that Miranda might be as attracted to her as she was to Miranda. 

Nope. Down that path lies madness. She squashed the thought, because that would get her exactly nowhere. 

Besides, Miranda was walking back toward her. 

“It was the wrong silhouette for you,” she said, all business. She had her handbag on her shoulder. “I’m surprised Cassidy didn’t see that.”

Andy, who had heard on numerous occasions by now heard Cassidy talk about how little she cared for any of the trappings of fashion journalism, was not. She shrugged. “I don’t know, Miranda. I thought it was nice.”

“That was never in dispute.” Miranda jerked her head, sending her forelock tumbling over her eyes. “Roy is waiting.”

In the car, Andy tapped her knees and looked out the window while Miranda typed industriously on her phone, as though Andy wasn’t even there. Finally, Andy could take it no longer and said, “I don’t think anything in the Closet is going to fit me, Miranda.”

“Don’t be silly,” Miranda said, not looking up. “This isn’t 2010, Andrea. Runway is on the forefront of size inclusivity.” 

Andy choked a little, remembering how Miranda had stood in front of her and disparaged her weight with absolutely no hint of irony or regret. _ Smart, fat girl _ . And now she had just uttered the phrase _ size inclusivity _? 

“Something funny?” Miranda’s gaze slid sideways incrementally. There was a dangerous note in her voice.

“Not at all,” Andy said quickly, gulping her grin. “Thanks for this.”

“Mm.” Miranda’s expression relaxed, and she turned her attention back to her phone.

Andy met Roy’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He winked.

***

There was no one in the Runway offices, and that was when Andy started to get really nervous.

This had seemed like an okay idea when they left. Safe enough. They were going to an _ office _ , after all—an office that had, for that matter, left permanent scars on Andy’s psyche. It wasn’t like it was _ personal _ or _ intimate. _She had handled a low-lit dinner in a romantic restaurant without spiraling into hysterical sexual fantasies, hadn’t she? 

But there was _ no _ one in the office. Not even a receptionist. Not even a frazzled and put-upon second assistant trying to complete an insurmountable task list with a modicum of information. And it suddenly occurred to Andy that trying on dresses in the Closet was going to involve—she gulped—more _ zipping _ and _ unzipping _, and there was no Cassidy here to save her from Miranda’s incendiary touches. 

Fuck.

She followed a couple steps behind Miranda, having a silent and desperate discourse with herself about the merits of feigning a seizure, or suddenly remembering a critical appointment, or just turning tail and running full-tilt out the door. 

She got a chance to do none of those things, because at that moment Miranda made the sharp left turn and scanned her badge to the door of the Closet.

“Now, then, Andrea,” she said, not bothering to hold the door for Andy or even check that she was even still behind her, “I think either a Marchesa or a Versace, don’t you? Something with a little bit of ruffle to accent that lovely haircut.” 

_ Lovely haircut _ ? Jesus. Her face was going to be perpetually crimson. She was going to have to stop in the beauty department before this party and slather it with green color corrector. Since when did Miranda _ compliment _ anyone?

“Um, sure.” What could Andy do but follow her? What had she _ ever _ been able to do but follow?

Except for that one time she didn’t, of course.

Miranda stopped and turned around so quickly that Andy almost ran into her. She stepped backward, yanking her purse back so it wouldn’t hit Miranda’s elbow. 

She expected Miranda to give her one of her trademark disapproving looks, but instead Miranda’s lips curved in a tiny inscrutable smile. “I think a size six?” she said.

“Um.” Andy glanced down self-consciously. “Big six. Small eight.”

“Lovely,” Miranda murmured again, turning away, and she actually seemed to _ mean _it.

Andy didn’t know what to do with herself as Miranda turned down one aisle of the Closet, then another. It seemed a little ridiculous to follow her like a puppy—like the assistant she hadn’t been for ten years—so she stood in the center of the room and waited. 

“Andrea,” Miranda said, and now she did sound a little impatient. 

“Yep, yep.” Andy stepped forward to take the gown that Miranda was holding out to her. It was silver-blue and strapless, and had a row of absolutely enormous fabric roses along the asymmetric hemline. “Wow. This is—”

“Just a starting point,” Miranda said, handing her another gown, this one bright red. “Four or five to begin with, I think,” she added.

When Andy had an armful of couture—she was careful to hoist the dresses high, so she wouldn’t tread on them with her sneakers—she followed Miranda to the two small changing rooms in the back. They weren’t used much, as the models generally changed clothes on the site of the shoots, but she was grateful to see that the red velvet curtains were still in place. She _ definitely _ couldn’t handle changing in the middle of the room with Miranda’s eyes on her.

“Thanks,” she muttered, as Miranda lowered herself elegantly into one of the armchairs near the dressing room to wait. 

It occurred to her, as she unzipped her jeans and pushed them to the floor, that this was almost certainly an unprecedented—or, at least, very distantly precedented—occurrence. Miranda had a horde of people whose sole job it was to dress models and actresses. There was absolutely no reason for her to be so invested in a _ science editor’s _ outfit for the gala. 

No professional reason, rather. Which meant that Andy was personal. 

Dear Lord. Was she Miranda’s _ friend _? 

“By all means, take your time,” Miranda said, interrupting Andy’s mental gymnastics. “I have nothing else at all to do today.”

“Hey.” Andy finished shimmying into a sequined rose-gold Armani Prive with puff sleeves that had, thank God, a side zipper. She pushed the curtain back. “This was your idea, remember.”

That startled look flashed across Miranda’s face again, the same one from the townhouse hall. As though she was looking at a very surprising stranger. Then she caught herself. 

“Very nice,” she said, her eyes traveling up Andy’s body and down again. “But a little too subdued for the event, I think.”

“You’d know.” Andy shrugged and stepped back into the changing room. She pulled the dress off and put it back on the hanger.

The next two gowns, both black, elicited tiny head-shakes from Miranda, and nothing else. “The Versace, please,” Miranda said, as Andy closed the curtain again.

Andy had been trying to avoid that one. The flowers were really _ enormous _ and Andy was pretty sure that the overall impression would be mostly just ostentatious, which she was trying to avoid. “Miranda, I don’t know about that one.”

“_ Andrea _.” Miranda sounded a little annoyed.

“Okay, okay, okay.” Andy took the dress off its hanger. It was so voluminous that she could barely figure out where to put her arms to slide it on. 

Back zipper. Shit.

“Um.” Andy turned toward the back of the dressing room and took a deep breath. So far she’d managed to keep her composure, but the very idea of Miranda stepping into this tiny, tiny space was enough to basically annihilate the fortitude she’d been working so hard to maintain. “Need some help with the zipper,” she managed to squeak.

There was a substantial pause. Andy’s pulse hammered in her ears. Her cheeks burned. 

Then: “Certainly.” She heard Miranda stand up, heard the metallic scrape of the curtain rings on the rod. Her breath caught.

She could feel the heat of Miranda’s hands, smell the slightly sweet scent of her perfume. She loosened her arms on the dress when she felt Miranda tug each side of the zipper together. 

If Miranda let go now, the dress would fall, and she’d be bare from the waist up. She closed her eyes. Her head spun. 

Miranda’s fingers barely touched her skin, but Andy had goosebumps anyway. One of Miranda’s hands held the zipper in place between her shoulder blades; the other drew it up impossibly slowly. Andy told herself it was to keep the slider from snagging in the prodigious clouds of fabric. She told herself that, but she wasn’t, at this point, entirely certain it was true.

She could hear Miranda’s breathing behind her, slow and even. Too even. Not a normal breathing pattern at all. 

“There,” Miranda said, and her voice was a little too quiet, a little too tight. She stepped back, out of the dressing room. 

Andy realized she had her teeth clamped around her lower lip. She pried them apart, forced herself to take a deep breath, and turned around.

Miranda was just standing there, hands at her sides. The fingers of her right hand were worrying the fabric of her skirt. Tiny movements that Andy would have missed had her gaze not darted so quickly away from Miranda’s face.

Quickly, because the look on Miranda’s face was frankly terrifying.

That startled expression wasn’t going away, this time. Miranda’s eyes were bright, and there were two spots of pink high on her cheekbones. She was staring at Andy as though she’d never seen her before in her life.

Andy focused on the fingers of Miranda’s right hand, which were tightening and loosening on the skirt. 

“Is it...” Andy paused and took another deep breath. “Okay?”

The fingers drew into a fist, so tight that the skin over Miranda’s knuckles turned white. Andy forced her gaze back up and tried not to look as though she was about to lunge across the room and stick her tongue down Miranda’s throat. 

Miranda swallowed. 

“That’s it,” she said quietly.

_ Fuck _.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, my dudes, trying to get as much written as possible before vacation!

These are the scars that silence carved

On me

_ Gravity (Vienna Teng) _

***

“I am in big fucking trouble,” Andy said that night to Trixie. 

Trixie looked alarmed. “You didn’t take the under on the Alvarez-Khan fight, did you?” 

Andy stared at her. “What? No, Trixie. For the last time, I will never bet on boxing.”

“Rashad said you were thinking about it.” Trixie shoved a handful of popcorn in her mouth. “Why are you in trouble?”

Andy sighed into her tea mug. “I...I found a dress for the gala,” she said.

“Without me?” Trixie made a face and tossed a piece of popcorn at her. It bounced off Andy’s forehead and hit the floor.

“I didn’t buy it.” Andy retrieved the popcorn piece from under the couch and ate it.

Trixie brightened. “You stole it? Andrea Sachs, just when I thought you were lapsing into the rut of middle age.”

“Thirty-four is hardly—you know what, never mind.” Andy scowled.

“No, no, wait, I’m sorry.” Trixie muted the TV. “Tell me.”

Andy hesitated. “Actually...”

“_ Andy,” _Trixie said. “Out with it.”

“Miranda gave me the dress,” Andy blurted.

Trixie’s mouth fell open. “Excuse me?” 

“I mean, she didn’t _ give _ give it to me,” Andy corrected herself. “She took me to Runway and picked it out of the Closet.” When she said it out loud, it sounded so absurd that the expression on Trixie’s face actually seemed warranted.

“I’m sorry?” Trixie said incredulously. She put the popcorn bowl on the floor and sat up straight. “She _ took you to Runway _ and just, like, _ handed you a dress _?”

“Um.” Andy swallowed. “Yeah.”

She didn’t tell Trixie how she’d trembled when Miranda had pulled the zipper down the silver-blue Versace after she’d tried it on. How the movement of Miranda’s hands had been so slow it had made Andy’s skin crackle and her stomach flip and tumble. How she’d been shaking when she reached for her own clothes. 

Miranda had sent her home alone in the town car, citing work she needed to do at the office. The flush in her cheeks had spread to her throat, and she hadn’t met Andy’s gaze. Andy had left so quickly she had practically left a cartoon dust cloud behind her. 

“Dude,” Trixie said, her eyes alight. “She wants to bang you.”

Trixie hadn’t seen Miranda’s expression. She hadn’t heard the catch in Miranda’s voice, as though she was having trouble getting words out. All she knew was that Miranda had given Andy a dress. 

Andy had to concede that Trixie’s conclusion was actually kind of likely.

“Like I said,” Andy managed, running both hands through her short hair, “big fucking trouble.”

Trixie was grinning. “Whatcha gonna do?”

“Don’t look like that,” Andy said. 

“Sugar mama.” The grin widened.

“_ Stop,” _Andy moaned. 

“You won’t get a plus-one.” Trixie was almost giggling now.

“_ Trixie _ ,” Andy said, sliding onto the floor and pulling a blanket over her face. “I’m mentoring her _ daughter _ . What am I going to _ do? _”

“Honest opinion?” Trixie said. “Bang her.”

“You are not helping,” Andy said from under the blanket.

“Fine.” Trixie reached down and plucked the blanket off of Andy’s face. She’d toned down her expression. “I sympathize with you, Andy, I really do. A super rich, super hot celebrity wants to go to pound town with you. It’s a tragedy. Crushing. Where’s the dress?”

Andy scooted further under the coffee table. “On my bed,” she said miserably.

Trixie hopped off the couch and went into Andy’s room. A second later, Andy heard her hoot of delight. “_ Damn _, girl.”

Andy got up. Trixie was holding the dress against herself, turning this way and that in the mirror. “This probably costs more than you make in a year.”

“I know,” Andy said.

“Think she’ll buy you jewelry too?” Trixie said, putting the dress back down.

“_ Trixie _.”

***

“Mom said you found a dress,” Cassidy said on Tuesday.

Andy’s eyebrows went up. Cassidy almost never mentioned her mother during their meetings, and Andy had sort of assumed that the topic would be off-limits after the snit she’d witnessed.

“Um, yeah,” Andy said. 

“Good,” Cassidy said, but she didn’t turn back to her computer. She just looked at Andy, her expression narrow and assessing. 

After about thirty-five seconds of staring, Andy put her computer on the table. “Okay, what?”

Cassidy did a slow blink that was so like her mother’s it was unnerving. “She’s been talking about you,” she said evenly.

Andy felt a blush starting in her neck. “And?”

“Just...” Cassidy seemed to snap out of it. She looked back down at the screen. “Be careful,” she said.

***

_ Nigel is having a party next Saturday. Would you care to join me? _

The email was two sentences. But it was from Miranda herself, not an assistant, and it was sent well after midnight. She was inviting Andy to events in the middle of the night. She was _ thinking _ of Andy in the middle of the night. 

_ Be careful _, Cassidy had said. 

Trixie’s laughing face. _ I think you should bang her. _

Oh, were it that simple. 

Miranda was dangerous. There was no way around it. She had hooks in everything, and she knew _ everyone _ . More importantly, Andy genuinely liked and respected Cassidy, and she didn’t want to screw that up. And besides, Andy had no idea whether or not Miranda really felt—like _ that— _about her.

And even if she did, what then? A one-night stand? A _ fling _ ? One did not do _ flings _ with Miranda Priestly, Andy was pretty sure of that. She couldn’t even imagine Miranda half-dressed, maybe sprawled across a rumpled sunlit bed the morning after, her perfect hair tousled and her makeup from the night before smeared across her face...

Okay, so maybe she could imagine it a little better than she thought.

It was becoming abundantly clear that Andy had been hung up on Miranda for a pretty decent chunk of her adult life. And that, she knew, was decidedly _ not _ healthy. Miranda was not good for her. She was too old, too scary, too risky. She needed to find someone else to fixate on. She needed to at least give someone else a _ shot _.

She re-downloaded Tinder and started swiping.

***

Two days later, she still hadn’t replied to Miranda. She’d set up a coffee date with a cute blond from Brooklyn, and she was messaging with three other girls, but she didn’t know what to do about the email. Trixie continued to be massively unhelpful, and asking Cassidy about it would be, Andy was pretty sure, a shit idea.

“Just go,” Trixie said. She seemed like she was finally getting a little tired of hearing Andy perseverate on party versus no party. “What’s the harm? It’s a party, right?”

“You’re right,” Andy said. She was getting a little tired of hearing herself, too, for that matter. “You’re right. It’s just a party. I’ll go. Yeah. I’ll go.”

She sent an email back that evening. _ Yes. I’d love to. Thank you _.

The reply came not even half an hour later. _ I’ll send Roy for you at nine. _

The question of what she’d wear was answered the next day. 

***

“What the fuck,” Trixie breathed, looking down at the open box.

What the fuck, indeed.

Andy reached down gingerly, as though retrieving a bomb, and lifted a black Valentino cocktail dress out of a cloud of tissue. Beneath it, tucked neatly in a nest of more tissue, was a pair of silver-studded Louboutins.

Trixie’s goggle-eyed gaze went from the dress and shoes to Andy’s face and back again. “There’s no way this is your life,” she managed to say.

“I don’t...” Andy’s heart was threatening to stampede out of her chest. “She can’t think I’ll accept this.”

“Oh, I think she very much does.” Trixie lifted one of the heels out of the box and turned it in her hand. “Andy.”

“Yeah?” Andy said faintly.

Trixie flipped the shoe over and showed Andy the unblemished crimson sole. “These,” she said, “have never been worn.”

Andy took the shoe from Trixie. She put it, and the dress, very carefully back into the box and closed the lid.

“I have to do something about this,” she said.

***

She called Miranda. 

“Yes,” Miranda said, answering on the second ring. 

“It’s me.” Andy made a face. “Andy,” she amended.

“Yes,” Miranda said again, expectantly this time.

“Can we—” Andy broke off, took a deep breath, and tried again. “Can I buy you a coffee?”

She could almost hear Miranda’s amusement, but thankfully Miranda didn’t say anything. “Yes,” she said, for the third time.

“Um.” Andy hesitated. “Starbucks by your house?” 

“There are three, Andrea, you’ll have to be more specific.” The amusement was more evident now. 

Andy Googled. “Um, okay—this one.” She texted the address.

“Four o’clock,” Miranda said. 

“I’ll be there.”

***

She was almost getting used to the stomach-twisting anxiety she felt before seeing Miranda. Every time she thought about her, she remembered the feeling of Miranda’s fingertips, brushing ever so lightly against her skin. About Miranda’s too-controlled breathing. About the deep flush at her throat. 

Andy had been in the Starbucks for eight minutes when her phone buzzed. She looked down. It was Miranda.

_ Come outside _.

The town car was at the curb, flashers on. Roy was standing next to it.

“What can I get you?” he asked, opening the door for her.

“Are we not—” Andy looked in at Miranda. Of course they weren’t. Barring the occasional drop-in on her daughter, Miranda would not be fraternizing at a Starbucks like a common millennial. She sighed and turned back to Roy. “Grande Pikes Place,” she said, and slid into the car.

He nodded and closed the door gently behind her.

“Andrea,” Miranda greeted her.

“I can’t accept,” Andy said.

Miranda’s blue eyes widened slightly, and the small smile on her lips vanished. “Excuse me?” 

“The dress,” Andy said, feeling her palms start to sweat. “It’s too much, Miranda. I can’t.”

Miranda’s whole body stiffened. “It’s of no consequence, I assure you, Andrea.”

Andy’s lips tightened. “Not to me.”

“I see.” Miranda’s tone had cooled to the approximate temperature of a deep freezer. “Well. Shall I assume you will be otherwise engaged on the night in question?”

“What?” Andy said, shocked. “No! I still want to go, Miranda. I haven’t seen Nigel in—”

“You can’t expect to wear _ Lands End _,” Miranda said, dropping still further toward absolute zero.

“No, I—I wasn’t,” Andy faltered. She was starting to sense she was going to lose this battle. “I just—I’m sorry, Miranda. I didn’t mean to—I just meant that you didn’t have any obligation—did I offend you?”

Miranda’s head snapped toward her, an expression of frank disbelief on her face. “Must you really ask that?” 

Andy’s face heated up. She’d never, not once, seen Miranda look like that. Almost as though—incredibly, almost as though Andy had _ hurt her feelings _.

“I didn’t want you to feel like you had to—” Andy broke off. Miranda was just staring at her, and fuck if she didn’t actually look _ wounded _ under the brittle expression.

“I believe I told you before,” Miranda said, enunciating each word carefully, “that I do not feel I _ have _ to do much at all.”

Andy’s breath was coming short and fast. She felt weirdly dissociated. “Then why—why?”

Miranda looked away. “Why are you mentoring Cassidy?” she said.

“Because—” Andy stammered, confused. “Because it’s fun. And she does a good job. And, and I like her.”

Miranda’s eyes swung, very slowly, back to Andy’s face. She didn’t say anything.

“Oh,”Andy said quietly, and finally Miranda nodded.

Andy was silent for a moment, chewing on her lower lip. Miranda hadn’t sent her the dress because of a weird control thing. She hadn’t sent it because she felt some sort of obligation for the meetings with Cassidy. She had done it because—because she _ liked Andy _. The dissociated feeling got worse. 

“I’m sorry, Miranda,” she said finally, softly. “The dress is lovely. I would be honored to wear it.”

There was a light tap on the door. Roy was standing outside with their coffees. Andy looked from Miranda to Roy and back again, and when Miranda didn’t respond, she opened the door. “Thanks, Roy,” she said.

“No problem.” He went around to the driver’s seat. Miranda accepted her coffee, then pushed the button for the privacy screen. 

The silence between them was leaden. Miranda was clearly waiting for something more, but Andy had no idea what. 

“Are we...” She trailed off and looked at Miranda out of the corner of her eye. “Okay?”

“This may come as a surprise to you, Andrea,” Miranda said, turning her gaze to the flow of people passing the town car, “but there are very few people with whom I am close.”

That was actually completely unsurprising, but Andy wasn’t stupid enough to say so. Instead, she waited for Miranda to continue.

“I’ve followed your career these past years,” Miranda said, and Andy almost spilled her coffee.

“You—you have?”

Miranda flashed her a withering look. “Unlike my other assistants, you showed incredible promise,” she said, her tone growing less winsome by the word. “If you think I lacked interest in you—”

“No. No, I didn’t. I don’t,” Andy said immediately, even though she very much had. 

“The point is,” Miranda said, now sounding a little irritated at the interruption, “I...value you, Andrea.”

Andy blurted a laugh.

Miranda’s head whipped around, her eyes flashing daggers, her spine snapping straight. She opened her mouth to say something undoubtedly cutting, but Andy got there first. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, between giggles. “No, Miranda. I’m sorry.” She put her coffee into the cup holder, then reached out and caught Miranda’s hand between both of hers, and at this, Miranda looked so shocked that she actually let it happen. “It’s just that—what I think you just said to me—I think you just said you like me.”

Miranda’s expression relaxed incrementally. She pulled her hand back, but she did it slowly, almost as though she didn’t really want to. “I did _ not _say that.”

“You did.” Andy was still grinning. “Thank you, Miranda.” She held onto Miranda’s coffee-warmed fingertips for just a second longer before Miranda pulled away completely. “I like you too,” she added.

“Well.” The corners of Miranda’s mouth tightened, as though she was trying to hold back a smile. “You always were prone to outbursts of emotion.”

Andy laughed again. “Yeah,” she said. “I suppose so.” 

Miranda angled herself even further away from Andy, so Andy couldn’t see her face at all. Just the curve of her cheek, which looked suspiciously as though it encompassed a now-uncontained smile. Without turning back toward Andy, she rapped twice on the privacy screen, and Roy pulled away from the curb.

***


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Write write write write write write write write
> 
> the prescription is for LOVE and it’s signed by Dr. Ama

Don’t you believe them

Don’t you drink their poison too

_ Gravity (Vienna Teng) _

_ *** _

“Wow,” Trixie said.

Andy grinned at herself in the mirror. “Yeah,” she agreed.

“I’ll give it to Miranda.” Trixie took Andy gently by the shoulders and spun her around. “She can really pick a dress.”

The Valentino was sleeveless, high-necked with a black lace overlay, which contrasted nicely with the silver studs on the Louboutins. She’d done a smoky eye and the same crimson lip she’d worn to dinner with Miranda. “I look awesome,” she said, looking over her shoulder at the curve of her back. 

“And you maintain she’s not trying to get you into bed,” Trixie said.

Andy rolled her eyes. “Does it matter?” 

“A little!” Trixie exclaimed. 

It didn’t. Andy had gone on the coffee date with Blond Brooklyn Girl, whose name was Lauren. Then they’d gone on a second date, and a third. Lauren was smart, and kind, and about as far from Miranda as it was possible to get. She was a chemical engineer at a pharmaceutical company. 

“What does she think you’re doing tonight?” Trixie asked, watching Andy slide silver hoop earrings into her ears.

“She thinks I’m going to a party thrown by a former co-worker with my former boss,” Andy said matter-of-factly. “Which is, as I understand it, exactly what’s happening.”

“Did you tell her your former boss has gifted you now _ two _ couture gowns?” Trixie asked. “And a pair of four-thousand-dollar shoes?”

Andy looked at Trixie guiltily. “No.”

“Mm.” Trixie nodded sagely. “Don’t go leading her down the primrose path, now.”

“I’m not!” Andy snapped. “It’s not like we’re exclusive.”

“Mm,” Trixie said again.

“I’m giving the Versace back after the gala,” Andy protested.

“Sure you are,” Trixie said. 

“Shut up.”

Trixie pointed to Andy’s phone, which was buzzing. “Your car is here,” she said.

***

Miranda wasn’t in the back of the car, but then, Andy wasn’t really expecting her to be. She’d either show up much later, or she’d already be at Nigel’s. It turned out to be the latter, but Andy didn’t realize that until well after she’d arrived at the party. 

Nigel swooped down on her, all air kisses and chatter, and for a while it was as though she’d never left. But then he was hauled away by other friends, a pair of designers Andy didn’t know, and she was left alone in the expansive main level of Nigel’s home.

“The faces change, but the conversation remains the same,” a voice murmured in her ear, and she turned gratefully to see Miranda at her elbow. 

“Hi,” she said, then: “Wow. Miranda. You look—you look incredible.” 

Miranda was wearing a black floor-length gown with a V-neck cut to below her sternum. Bare throat, and up close, Andy could see the light dust of freckles over her décolletage. The sleeves of the dress were three-quarter length, and a slender diamond bracelet sparkled on one wrist. Her snowy hair fell in sculpted waves over her left eye. 

Astonishingly, she had a glass of wine in each hand, and she handed one to Andy. “I chose _ exceptionally _ well for you,” she replied, her lips tipping up in a smile.

“Did you just compliment yourself by way of me?” Andy grinned.

Miranda’s pale shoulders rose and fell in a tiny shrug. “Who can say?”

Andy laughed. “Thanks, Miranda,” she said. “And thanks for having me. This was—this is nice.”

“_ Nice _ ,” Miranda parroted, rolling her eyes and delicately pursing her lips. “She’s in vintage Valentino, she’s rubbing shoulders with every trendsetter in New York, and all she can manage is _ nice _.”

“Well.” Andy dared to curl two fingertips around Miranda’s elbow and propel her toward the designers who had whisked Nigel away. “Why don’t you quit letting me drift and introduce me to some of these sparkly people, already.”

***

She’d had too much fun and way, _ way _ too much wine. Miranda had really _ done _ the thing, circulating the room at Andy’s elbow, and when Andy had been introduced to everyone, she’d vanished. By that time Andy was three glasses in, and she was having too good a time to even register that Miranda was no longer beside her. 

At two AM, when people were starting to dissipate, Miranda reappeared. “Andrea,” she said.

“Oh my God, he didn’t.” Trevor with art design at Lagerfeld clutched Andy's arm. “For _ twenty minutes _?”

“Without stopping,” Andy said, emphasizing her statement with an expansive wave of her wine glass, and the little group in front of her burst out laughing.

“_ Andrea _,” Miranda said again, and now she sounded annoyed. 

Andy spun. “Miranda!” she said delightedly. “Where have you been?” 

Instead of responding, Miranda handed Andy her phone and purse. With the other hand, she took Andy’s arm and propelled her toward the door. “It’s late,” she said sharply.

“Miranda, what—” Andy looked down at Miranda’s hand on her arm, then back at Miranda’s face. Yes, she was drunk, yes, it was about five hours past her usual bedtime, but she could swear Miranda looked _ angry. _

“You don’t look like you’re having fun,” Andy said, letting Miranda steer her into the cold night air. “I didn’t say goodbye to Nigel.”

“Nigel passed out half an hour ago,” Miranda said crossly. “It’s late, and we’re leaving.”

“I can take an Uber home.” Andy stumbled. The hand on her arm tightened, and Miranda’s scowl intensified. 

“Absolutely not,” Miranda said darkly. “Roy will take us back to the townhouse. You’ll stay in Cassidy’s room.”

“Roy can take me home,” Andy protested, as they approached the town car. 

“Roy,” Miranda said, her cheeks darkening, “has the day off tomorrow, and he does not wish to drive to Queens at this hour.” She opened the car door.

“Ugh, _ fine _,” Andy said, shoving her lower lip out and tumbling into the car. “I was having fun, but fine.” 

She fell asleep in the car, waking up only when Roy tugged at her arms. “Sorry, Andy,” he said.

Andy groaned. Everything spun. “‘S’fine,” she muttered. She leaned on Roy, following Miranda up the stairs and into the front door. 

“Oh God, more stairs,” she moaned. Two flights seemed insurmountable, and by the time she dropped into Cassidy’s bed, she felt like she’d been doing evasive maneuvers in a fighter jet. 

“That will be all, Roy,” she heard Miranda say, just before she passed out.

***

She woke up at six-thirty AM with a pounding headache and a mouth that tasted like she’d been gnawing on a mildewed kitchen sponge. She struggled to her feet and made it to the toilet just in time. Then she laid on the cool tile for a while, because it felt so nice not to be moving. 

She heard the bedroom door click. “Do not come in here, Miranda,” she ordered, kicking the bathroom door closed. 

No answer. She heard Miranda moving around in the room, then the door clicked again. Silence. 

After a few minutes, the side of her body on the floor started to ache and twinge. She heaved herself to all fours and pulled the bathroom door open. Cassidy’s bedroom was empty, but there was a large carafe of water on the nightstand, an empty glass, and what looked like a small bottle of Tylenol. 

Andy managed to make it back to the bed and crawled under the covers. Someone—Miranda or Roy—had taken her shoes off, but she was otherwise fully clothed. A set of pajamas was neatly folded on the the foot of the bed, Andy saw too late. 

Sitting next to the glass of water was Andy’s phone. It had been plugged in to charge, and when Andy picked it up she saw, on the lock screen, the message preview from Lauren, sent at one forty-six AM: 

_ Hey babe u awake? _

Oh. 

Well. 

That possibly explained quite a lot.

Andy couldn’t deal with Miranda’s ire at six in the morning with a screaming hangover, and she _ definitely _ couldn’t hold a conversation with sweet Lauren and explain why she had slept at her former boss’s house. She downed two Tylenol and half the carafe of water, put her head under the pillow, and went back to sleep.

***

When she woke again, it was after ten, and she felt significantly better. She sat up experimentally, and when her stomach didn’t lurch and protest, she drank the rest of the water and stood up. This time, she walked upright to the bathroom.

She looked insane. The Valentino was wrinkled and half-unzipped, her eye makeup had migrated halfway down her face, and her lipstick was—_ shit. _She looked back at the pillow. Yep. Definitely going to have to buy Miranda some pillow cases. They probably cost six hundred dollars a pop.

She opened a couple of drawers, found a pack of makeup wipes, and set about making herself look less like the Joker and more like a human being. Then, because it was already late in the morning, and she was pretty sure she’d already pissed Miranda off, she decided there was no harm in compounding her offenses, and got in the shower. _ God _ that felt good. She put on the pajamas, which were airy-soft and gray and smelled delightfully like Miranda, and took a deep breath. 

This was either going to be fine, or it was going to be a complete disaster.

She hung the Valentino in Cassidy’s closet, grabbed her phone, and opened the door. 

The hallway was empty. She could smell coffee, but she didn’t hear a sound. She crept downstairs, the gray hardwood cold on her bare feet. She passed the second floor office where she’d walked in on Stephen and Miranda arguing so long ago. No Miranda. She continued her descent. 

“Miranda?” Her voice sounded more timid than she would have liked. She would chalk that up to the hangover. 

No answer, but she heard the rustle of a page turning. She went into the kitchen.

Miranda was sitting at the granite island. She was bare-faced and barefoot, wearing a robe and pajama pants, turning the pages of the New York Times. A mug of coffee steamed beside her.

“Hi,” Andy said. 

“Good morning,” Miranda said coolly, without looking up. “Sleep well?”

Oh, yeah. The needle was rapidly sliding toward disaster. Had she been sitting here the _ entire morning _, waiting for Andy to come downstairs so she could demolish her?

Andy stood there a moment, not quite sure what to do, and then she thought, _ fuck it _. She went to the Nespresso machine on the counter, popped in a pod, and made herself some coffee. Then she sat down beside Miranda at the island.

“I had fun,” she said.

Miranda turned a page. “That much was evident.”

“Oh, come on, Miranda!” Andy reached over and put a hand flat on the newspaper, right where Miranda’s gaze was aimed. 

Miranda looked up at her as though she couldn’t quite believe what Andy had just done. She looked at Andy with eyes that bore a distinct resemblance to chips of stone.

“Did I embarrass you, or something?” Andy said, pulling the paper toward herself. 

Miranda’s lips thinned. She didn’t answer.

“Well?” Andy tapped the counter. “Did I? Did I behave badly? Offend you, somehow, by my interactions with your fancy friends?”

The lips thinned even further. “No,” Miranda said finally.

“Did I ask you to stay over? Did I even ask you for a _ ride _ ?” Andy could hear her voice rising, but she couldn’t seem to help it. She was so _ over _ this—Miranda running cold and hot, one second acting like she wanted nothing but Andy’s attention, the next second acting like she didn’t give even the tiniest of shits. 

And now _ Miranda _ was the one shrinking back. Not much—that wouldn’t be Miranda. But a little. “No,” she admitted.

“So what the fuck, then, Miranda?” Andy threw both hands in the air and leaned back in the chair. 

Miranda looked away. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Why are you acting like you’re pissed at me?” Andy demanded. 

The question thudded on the counter between them like a dead weight. Miranda didn’t answer. The silence was so loud it actually amplified the throbbing in Andy’s head. 

Andy waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, Miranda propped one elbow on the counter and rested her forehead in her hand. “I...” she said quietly. “I don’t know.”

Andy wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but this very much wasn’t it. Spite, she could handle. A cold-shoulder brush-off? Sure. She had dealt with it a zillion times in her year at Runway. But this Miranda—this vulnerable, resigned, soft-voiced Miranda—she had absolutely _ no _ idea what to do with her. 

“Andrea,” Miranda said, lifting her forehead from her hand and turning to Andy. Her expression was no longer frosty; now it was bewildered, almost pleading. She opened her mouth to say something else.

But she didn’t get the chance, because at that moment the front door slammed.

They both jumped, Miranda’s eyes going wide in alarm. Andy was halfway to the knife block when Cassidy’s voice rang down the hall, loud and sharp and furious. 

“_ Mom, _” she shouted, and then she was in the kitchen.

She was in pajamas, her fiery hair in a half-up, half-down ponytail. Her face was bright red, her eyes blazing. She was clutching a piece of paper in one hand. Her eyes darted toward Andy, a split second, but didn’t seem to register her presence. 

She thrust the paper in Miranda’s face. “What the fuck,” she snarled, “is this?”

Miranda usually smoothed Cassidy’s temper with a few well-placed words and a smile. Not today. Today, she looked at the paper in Cassidy’s hand, and all the color drained from her face.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“How _ could _ you?” Cassidy shrieked, and now she was crying, tears of rage that streamed down her freckled cheeks and splashed on the floor. “How could you _ do _ this to me?” 

She threw the paper on the floor at Miranda’s feet, whirled, and ran out. A second later, the front door slammed.

Miranda stood as though frozen, one hand pressed to her chest. Her face was dead white. She was staring at the crumpled paper on the floor. She seemed to have forgotten that Andy was there.

Andy knew it was none of her business. Knew that she should leave the paper on the floor where Cassidy had thrown it. She knew it, and yet she couldn’t tear her eyes off Miranda, who had tears trembling at her lashes. 

She knelt and picked up the paper. Saw the letterhead. Read the first line.

_ Oh, Miranda _ , she thought. _ No. _

It was a letter from Cell, accepting Cassidy’s article. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay yes I know journals no longer accept articles with actual letters but it was so much more delightfully dramatic than an email
> 
> ALSO I know that cell cannot be bought. Please forgive me cell. I’m just borrowing you


	7. Chapter 7

They’ve given up believing 

They’ve turned aside our stories of the gentle fall

_ Gravity (Vienna Teng) _

***

Andy stood up.

“Miranda?” she said tremulously, because Miranda hadn’t moved. Andy could see her chest heaving. She gave absolutely no indication that she’d heard. 

Andy put the acceptance letter on the counter. She took a step toward Miranda and thought better of it. It seemed like a very bad idea to stay here in the kitchen, but at the same time, she couldn’t just _ leave _. Not while Miranda was standing there looking like her heart had just broken.

How had she gotten the manuscript? Cassidy’s school email would be secured, and there was no way her advisor would have signed off on a submission to Cell. Not for these articles, anyway. 

Cold horror shot through her chest. Cassidy wouldn’t think that _ Andy _ had turned the manuscript over, surely? No. There was no way she could think that. Andy had been nothing but honest with her about the likelihood of her success with publication. She wouldn’t think that. She _ couldn’t. _

Was it possibly Cassidy’s accusation was unfounded? That Miranda hadn’t done it after all?

But she’d seen the look on Miranda’s face. 

_ Why _ ? Why had she done it? Why, when she knew how hard Cassidy was working to distinguish herself as a scientist? Why, when Andy had told her—had straight-up _ told _ her—that Cassidy would have plenty of first-author credits to her name soon enough? She was in her _ first year _ of graduate school. And how had she gotten to Cell, anyway? It was a peer-reviewed publication; it was supposed to be above influence. What had Miranda _ done? _

She felt sick, and it wasn’t because of her overindulgence the previous night. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more ill she felt. 

She took a step back.

Miranda’s eyes came back into focus and fixed on Andy. She looked utterly broken.

“Andrea—” she started to say, but Andy was shaking her head. 

“I think—” Andy took another step back. She couldn’t meet Miranda’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Miranda. I think I have to go.”

***

She swiped a pair of Cassidy’s running shoes from the front hall closet—they were a half size too small, but it was better than riding home in pajamas and heels. She waited outside for the Uber. She considered, for a moment, going back inside. Making sure Miranda was okay. Or at least calling Caroline for her.

But what Miranda had done had shaken Andy’s very belief in the sanctity of academia, and she didn’t think she was going to bounce right back from this one. Not right away. Maybe not ever.

Instead, she called Cassidy.

“Were you in on this?” Cassidy’s voice sounded watery and uneven, as though she’d been sobbing when the phone had rung. Andy could hear traffic in the background; she hadn’t even made it home yet. “Did you know?”

“_ No! _” Andy couldn’t get the word out fast enough. “Cassidy, I swear—I swear I didn’t have any idea. I don’t even know how she—”

“Did she do it?” And now Cassidy’s voice sounded so desperately sad that Andy felt her own heart aching. “Did she—” She tripped over the words. “—_ bribe _ them?”

“I don’t know.” Andy thought of the shattered look on Miranda’s face. “I’m sorry, Cassidy,” she added helplessly.

“I’ll never forgive her for this,” Cassidy whispered, and started to cry again. 

Andy’s Uber pulled up to the curb. “I’m coming over,” she said, but Cassidy had already hung up. 

***

By the time Andy got to Morningside Heights, Cassidy had figured out how Miranda had gotten the manuscript. 

“It was _ Kevin _,” she snarled, opening the door to her apartment to let Andy in.

“I don’t—”

“The _ undergrad _ .” Pure poison in her voice. “He made _ one figure _ for it.” She swiped furiously at her eyes. “Aisha is writing to the editors today. It can’t have been more than one person. It _ can’t _.” 

Accepting a “donation” in exchange for an article acceptance wouldn’t put anyone in prison. But it would definitely get them kicked off the editorial staff, and possibly exiled from scientific publishing. Cassidy was right. There was no way it was more than one person.

“I can’t believe she did this.” Cassidy’s eyes filled again and she smacked the heel of her hand on the end table. “I could have done it myself. I can _ do things. _” 

Miranda’s decision had put a little wobble in Andy’s belief in scientific publishing. But Cassidy—Cassidy had lost something much, much bigger. 

“She doesn’t think I can do anything.” Cassidy’s voice was quiet, shot through with pain. “She never has.” 

Andy wanted to hug her. Pat her arm. Do _ something _ to make that soft, gutted tone go away. But Cassidy just curled up on the couch with her face in her arms and cried, and cried, and cried.

***

Aisha’s inquiry had gotten results.

The acceptance letter was swiftly rescinded upon the discovery that one Heinrich Waller, editor for just three years, and coincidentally married to a photographer frequently contracted by Elias-Clarke, had fast-tracked the submission. No donation, Andy was relieved to learn, had been made. 

“It wasn’t a bribe,” Cassidy told her the following week over spaghetti in Queens. “Just a phone call.” Her voice hitched. “God only knows what she promised him, though.”

“Have you—” Andy braced herself. “Have you talked to her?”

“Mom?” Cassidy’s expression hardened. “No.”

Andy had called Miranda almost every day since she’d left her in the kitchen, but Miranda hadn’t answered. 

“Do you think maybe—” Andy started, and Cassidy cut her off.

“Don’t even suggest it,” she bit out, her cheeks going red. 

“Right. I’m sorry.” Andy winced. “Forget I said it.”

Cassidy took three deep breaths, one after another. Then she looked straight at Andy. 

“Let’s go get your computer,” she said. “I have a lot of work to do.”

***

After Cassidy had gone home, Andy called Roy. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought to do it earlier.

“How is she?” she asked.

“Between you and me?” Roy said. “Not great. Lot of long days this week. Can I ask what happened?”

Andy’s pause was a little too long. “I...”

“Nah,” he said quickly, cutting her off. “I shouldn’t have asked. Curiosity. You know. Sorry, Andy.”

“It’s okay.” Poor guy had been driving Miranda for decades; he should be allowed to ask whatever he damn well pleased. “What time are you picking her up?” 

“Eight, or so she tells me,” Roy said.

“Pick me up first,” Andy said.

***

Andy didn’t particularly relish the idea of waiting outside the Runway offices late at night, but she liked even less the idea of Miranda opening the town car door and finding her already sitting inside. So she and Roy sat leaning against the hood of the car, trading stories about their childhoods and carefully avoiding any mention of Miranda. 

Eight-fifteen went by. Then eight-thirty. Eight-forty-five.

At five minutes to nine, Andy looked at Roy.

“I’m going in there,” she said. 

Roy cocked an eyebrow at her. “Good luck,” he said, in a tone that clearly indicated he didn’t think luck would help her even a little bit.

There was a security guard at the desk until nine. She scooted in just before he locked the door. 

“Miranda Priestly,” she said to him. “I don’t have an appointment.”

He looked at her dubiously. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay.” She pulled out her phone and sent Miranda a text. _ I’m downstairs. Can I come up? _

Ten seconds later, the guard’s phone rang. He answered, and Andy watched with amusement as his expression morphed from skepticism to chagrin.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, buzzing her through.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Miranda was at her desk. Her computer was on, and the Book was in front of her, but she wasn’t looking at either. Her gaze flicked up to Andy’s face, then away again. 

“Hi,” Andy said. 

Miranda gave a little listless wave. “Andrea.”

“You didn’t answer my calls.” Andy sat down in the chair opposite her and leaned forward, crossing her arms on the desk and resting her chin on them.

“I was busy.” 

“Roy says you’ve been working too much.” It was paraphrasing, okay, but Miranda needed to know that people were worried about her. 

Miranda’s voice was flat and gray. “Roy shouldn’t be gossiping.”

“You can’t stay here all night.”

Miranda didn’t answer, just looked down at the Book. She looked exhausted. 

Something in Andy’s chest contracted into a tight little knot. Her hands and feet tingled, just like they always did when she was about to do something really, incredibly stupid. 

She stood up. 

She could feel Miranda’s gaze shift to her, but she didn’t return it. She kept her eyes on the window and the lights beyond, because if she looked at Miranda now, she was going to lose her nerve. Her heart felt like it was going to hammer its way right out of her chest. She could barely feel her hands.

She could hear Miranda’s breathing in the silence, not quite steady. And then she did the Really Stupid Thing.

She took three steps. She was behind Miranda’s chair. She could smell Miranda’s perfume, see the delicate pink scalp at the part of her hair. 

She reached down and put her hand on Miranda’s shoulder. 

Miranda stiffened, every muscle tensing. Andy’s breath seized in her chest. She was pretty sure Miranda was going to stab her with a letter opener, but she could feel her hands again.

And Miranda didn’t move away.

There was a sudden warmth on Andy’s fingers. Miranda was exhaling, long and shuddering, and she was _ clutching Andy’s hand _.

Incredibly stupid. But not a miscalculation.

It lasted three seconds. Five at most, and Miranda was pulling away. 

“Come, Andrea,” she said, her voice so soft it was almost a whisper. “It’s time to go home.”

Andy carried Miranda’s purse, not out of habit, but because Miranda looked too tired to support even her own weight. They rode the elevator down to the first floor in silence.

Roy was still at the curb, still leaning on the car. Loyal, wonderful Roy. He knew better than to utter a word. He just opened the door for them, went around to the driver’s side, and closed the privacy screen before pulling into the street.

Miranda leaned her head on the window and closed her eyes. She was so quiet and still that Andy thought, for most of the trip, that she must be asleep. But as soon as they pulled up to the town house, she opened her eyes.

“Andrea,” she said softly, not looking at Andy, “would you consider staying?”

Andy’s heart skipped a beat. 

“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

Miranda nodded. “Thank you,” she said, and opened the door. 

Andy followed her inside, kicking off her shoes in the foyer and nudging them under the entryway bench. Miranda didn’t stop walking, didn’t even look at her. She just went straight up the stairs. Andy heard her footsteps climbing all the way up to her fourth floor bedroom.

“Guess I fend for myself,” Andy muttered to herself, when she heard Miranda’s bedroom door close. She locked the townhouse door and started the climb to Cassidy’s room. When she got there, she pulled up short.

It wasn’t that the bed was made. It wasn’t even that there were fresh flowers on the nightstand. 

It was that there was a set of pajamas folded on the bed, and a towel, and atop the towel, a toothbrush and toothpaste. 

“Son of a bitch,” Andy murmured. 

She very much doubted that Miranda set out guest pajamas and a new toothbrush for her daughters’ visits. How long had she been preparing for Andy to come and stay? How many times had the flowers been replaced?

“Son of a _ bitch _,” Andy said again, louder this time.

She took a shower, changed into the pajamas, and climbed into bed. Thought about closing the door. 

She left it open.

***

At eleven-thirty, she was still awake. 

It wasn’t that Miranda’s house wasn’t quiet. It was _ incredibly _ quiet. In fact, it was so quiet that the quietness was actually _ loud _. Andy missed the horns honking and the intermittent thumping bass of her own apartment building.

She sat up. Listened. Miranda hadn’t come downstairs; Andy would have heard. Was she asleep, up there on the fourth floor? 

Of course it was a bonkers idea to go check on Miranda. She was a grown woman. She didn’t need Andy looking in on her.

And yet.

Once the idea had snaked its way into Andy’s brain, it latched on with tenterhooks and wouldn’t let go. She laid down and sat up three separate times before she decided she had just better go ahead and do it.

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid _, she said to herself, creeping barefoot up the steps to the fourth floor. Hadn’t she gotten in trouble once before by climbing these very stairs?

There was only one door up here, and it was open. Dim light shone into the hall.

“For God’s sake, don’t lurk out there,” came Miranda’s voice, making Andy jump.

Andy swallowed hard. She climbed the last three stairs and pushed the bedroom door all the way open. 

Miranda was sitting in a massive armchair by the window. She was wrapped in the same gray bathrobe she’d been wearing the day Cassidy stormed in. An untouched mug of tea was on the end table beside her. 

“I spent eighteen years with very sneaky twins,” Miranda said by way of explanation, seeing the question on Andy’s face. She made a tired little gesture, beckoning Andy closer. 

Andy came in and sat next to her on the ottoman. “You should be asleep,” she said.

“I could say the same to you.” Miranda passed a hand over her eyes. 

“I, um.” Andy twisted the hem of the pajama top between her fingers. “I saw Cassidy today.”

Miranda tensed. “And?”

“She’s okay.” Andy didn’t mention the fact that Cassidy looked as exhausted as Miranda. “I think—I think she might like to hear from you.”

When Miranda didn’t answer, Andy looked up at her. To her horror, she saw that Miranda’s eyes were filled with tears.

“You never know,” Miranda said softly, her expression completely emotionless, “in how many ways you can fail until you become a parent.” 

“Miranda—” And because her whole day was filled with doing stupid things, and she was very, very tired, she stood up, switched off the lamp, and reached for Miranda’s hand. “Come on.”

Miranda allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. She didn’t say a word as Andy led her over to her bed, tossed the covers back with her free hand, and took her by the shoulders. 

“Go to sleep,” she said, gently pushing Miranda down onto the bed. 

“You’re not really doing this,” Miranda said, but there was no bite in her words. 

Andy nudged Miranda’s knee with her own. “Lie down,” she said, and she heard her own mother in her tone, no nonsense and no arguments.

And, to Andy’s utter shock, Miranda did. 

Andy pulled the duvet over Miranda’s shoulder and gave it two awkward pats. “Good night, Miranda,” she said, and scooted out of the room before Miranda could reply.

***


	8. Chapter 8

Hey love,

That’s the name we’ve long held back

From the core of truth

_ Gravity (Vienna Teng) _

***

Andy slept pretty darn well after that.

She heard Miranda’s alarm going off at six-fifteen. She didn’t have to be at the office until nine, but she supposed she should go home and at least make an effort to look presentable. Plus, there was the small matter of Trixie.

_ I cannot BELIEVE you spent the night again. DUDE. _

Yeah, Trixie was going to need some explanation.

She heaved herself out of bed and went to the bathroom. After some consideration, she decided to leave the toothbrush and toothpaste in a drawer. 

Miranda wasn’t downstairs by the time she was ready to go. She sent her a text. _ Heading out. _She paused, trying to decide what else to say. Cassidy loves you. I’m worried. Take care of yourself.

_ Call me later, _she sent. 

It would have to do.

***

Miranda did not call her later. Cassidy, however, did. 

“Cass,” Andy said carefully, when Cassidy seemed to have run out of steam, “I think you should maybe try talking to your mom.”

“Don’t you start,” Cassidy snapped, and hung up on her.

She called back half an hour later. “I’m sorry,” she said, by way of greeting.

“I was twenty-two once,” Andy replied.

“_ She _ should be calling _ me,” _Cassidy pointed out.

Andy sighed. “You’re not wrong.”

***

Two weeks after the publication that wasn’t, and the impasse between Miranda and Cassidy remained. Miranda hadn’t called Andy, either. Finally, Andy broke down and called her.

“I’m coming over,” she said. “You pick the day, but I’m coming.”

She heard Miranda’s huff of exasperation, but she gave Andy an answer. “Friday.”

“Thank you.” Andy hung up.

On Friday, Andy showed up at eight. Miranda opened the door. She was still in her work clothes, and full makeup, and she looked like she hadn’t slept in a week.

“I hope you’re not hungry,” she said, stepping back to allow Andy entry. 

Andy held up her hands. She was holding a carry out bag of Thai food in one; a to-go container containing Miranda’s favorite steak in the other. “Your choice,” she said.

Miranda, despite herself, smiled a little.

“You need to call Cassidy,” Andy said bluntly, after her third bite of noodles. 

Miranda’s face closed off so fast that Andy could almost feel her hair blow back. “Don’t,” she said warningly.

“Look.” Andy put down her chopsticks and leaned toward Miranda. “I know it’s none of my business, okay? I _ know _. But she’s miserable, and you’re miserable, and let’s face it, Miranda, you owe her an apology.”

Anger flashed in Miranda’s eyes. “You’re right,” she said, shoving her steak away and standing up. “It’s none of your business.”

She stalked out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and into her room. The sound of the door closing wasn’t a slam—but only just.

Andy pushed her fringe up and off her forehead. “That went great,” she said out loud. 

Well. She’d made the trip down here, and she had a plate of perfectly good pad Thai, and it wasn’t like Miranda had kicked her out. So she might as well finish dinner before she left.

Plus, she was right, and Miranda knew it. 

She took Buzzfeed quizzes on her phone while she finished her food. Then she washed the plates by hand, packing up Miranda’s steak and stashing it in the fridge for whenever Miranda was done pouting. She had almost finished cleaning up when she heard a noise. Miranda had come downstairs and was sitting in her armchair in the library.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, as Andy was drying the last plate.

Andy gave her a little smile. “Now you tell me.” She shook out the dish towel and hung it on the oven handle.

“Thank you for dinner,” Miranda added.

Andy shrugged. “You didn’t eat it.”

“That doesn’t mean the gesture wasn’t appreciated,” Miranda said. She sighed. She’d taken her contacts out and washed her face. Andy liked her like that: no eyeliner, no mascara, just blue eyes and glasses. “I called Cassidy.”

Andy pulled up short. “And?” she asked, hardly daring to breathe.

“And...” Miranda suddenly looked very tired. “And I apologized, and she said she’d—what did she say? She said she’d think about considering accepting my apology.” She took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes.

“Hey.” Andy came over, hands stuck in her back pockets, and nudged Miranda’s foot with her own. “That’s better than nothing.”

“Yes,” Miranda said quietly. “I suppose it is.”

Andy sat down on the little footstool and patted Miranda’s knee. “I’m proud of you,” she said.

The expression Miranda gave her was half surprise, half incredulity, but at least she no longer looked pitiful. “Oh, my,” she said. “How far I must have fallen.”

“You look pretty miserable,” Andy conceded. She started to move her hand from Miranda’s knee, but right at that moment, Miranda reached forward. 

Andy’s heart lurched. Miranda’s fingers, cool and softened by L’Occitane, wrapped themselves snugly around Andy’s. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t look at Andy, either, just sat there, gazing down at the manicured nails of her free hand, while she blithely wreaked complete and total immolation on every molecule of Andy’s self-control.

Correction. Every molecule of Andy’s self-control except one. Which Miranda subsequently decimated by stroking the back of Andy’s wrist with her thumb.

She didn’t realize she’d closed her eyes. She didn’t know that her head had tipped back, that her lips had parted, that her eyebrows had knitted together. She just knew that she had been waiting a long fucking time to feel Miranda’s skin against hers, and she wanted to remember every second of it.

It didn’t last nearly long enough, and Miranda was pulling away. Standing up. Andy didn’t open her eyes; she wasn’t ready to see that Miranda didn’t mean what Andy wanted this to mean. She felt Miranda hovering near her. 

Then she felt Miranda’s fingertips on her jaw, brushing so lightly against her skin that it could barely be described as a touch. 

“Stay, if you want to,” Miranda murmured.

Andy kept her eyes closed until she heard Miranda ascend to her room. 

She sat there for a long time, listening to Miranda moving around upstairs. The sound of the water running. Toilet flushing. Water again, more footsteps. Her heart was pounding. Her brain felt like someone had taken a hand mixer to it. 

_ Stay, if you want to. _

Andy didn’t consider herself excessively optimistic, but she wasn’t completely stupid. Whatever _ that _was, it introduced the significant possibility that Miranda did, in fact, mean exactly what Andy had hoped she meant. Her lung capacity seemed to have been reduced by half as she thought about the fact that she might be able to climb the stairs to the fourth floor, and pull back the Egyptian cotton duvet, and slide between the sheets. That she might be allowed to press her lips to the hollow of Miranda’s throat, and run her fingers over the curve of her waist, and—

Andy realized she was gripping the sides of the footstool so tightly that her fingers were beginning to ache. 

_ Don’t overthink it _, Trixie would tell her. But Trixie didn’t realize how much of Andy’s emotional headspace was occupied by Miranda, and had been since she first set foot in the lacquered halls of Runway. Trixie didn’t know how it would destroy Andy to have Miranda and lose her. And lose her she would, because how could Miranda possibly want to keep Andy? There was no way—absolutely no goddamn way—that Miranda could feel about Andy the way Andy felt about her. 

Could she have a fling with Miranda and walk away unscathed? Or even lightly scathed? Or even slightly-less-than-life-ruiningly-scathed?

Not a chance in hell.

And there was the small matter of her friendship with Cassidy, who would assuredly be enraged that Miranda had taken yet one more thing she had created for herself. Andy refused to be one more wedge between them. At the very least, it would create tension between herself and Miranda that would sour whatever was starting between them. 

No. It was a bad idea. It was a _ terrible _ idea. 

_ Stay, if you want to. _

Andy’s resolve lasted nine minutes.

When she got to the fourth floor, it was quiet. No lights on. She could hear the faint rustle of Miranda’s sheets.

She knew, too, that Miranda could hear her on the stairs. What had she said? Eighteen years of sneaky twins. She didn’t tiptoe.

When she pushed Miranda’s door the rest of the way open, she heard a soft, quick breath from somewhere in the direction of the bed. She followed the dim light from the hallway. She could see Miranda’s shape beneath the duvet, but her face was in shadow. 

Miranda shifted. Made a place for her. She didn’t say a word. 

Andy sat down beside her. She was grateful for the dimness, because her face was burning and the thought of meeting Miranda’s gaze was terrifying. For a moment, neither of them moved.

And then Miranda shifted again, and said, very quietly, “Come here, Andrea.”

The pit of Andy’s stomach went loose and hot. This time, there was no mistaking Miranda’s tone: it was low, and insistent, and threaded through with want. 

A thousand thoughts rocketed through Andy’s brain simultaneously. Risks. Benefits. Consequence and reward. She could have Miranda. She could really _ have _ her, at least for tonight. 

Yeah. And she could lose her, too.

Miranda’s hand was on the duvet, halfway between them, not quite reaching. She scooted closer and took it in both of hers. She turned it over and heard Miranda’s soft, startled breath as she ran her fingertips lightly across Miranda’s palm. 

Her eyes had adjusted to the low light, but she kept her gaze on the hand nestled in hers. She rubbed the index finger of one hand between Miranda’s knuckles as she stroked the soft skin of Miranda’s forearm from her elbow to her wrist. Over and over, and Miranda was utterly silent and still, except for the too-quick rhythm of her breathing.

Consequence. Reward. 

Andy’s rational thoughts were very effectively being shoved out of her brain by the insistent throbbing between her thighs. This was a bad idea. This was a _ shit _ idea. 

Andy closed her eyes and brought Miranda’s palm up, close enough to her lips that she could feel the reflected heat of her own breath.

She didn’t think Miranda would be able to hear her, but she asked anyway. If the answer was no, she was going to die on the spot. She forced the words out in the barest whisper. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.” Miranda’s response was slightly strangled, louder than necessary in the silent bedroom, and she’d barely clipped the _ s _ before Andy’s mouth was on her palm.

The affirmation ended in a gasp, the sound sending lightning bolts through Andy’s entire body and setting her skin on fire. She could feel the slight shake in Miranda’s hand as she kissed up each finger and down again. As she dragged her lips across the crease of her wrist and curled them around the delicate prominence of her ulna. When she leaned further down to mouth Miranda’s inner arm, Miranda’s breath hitched and paused. And when she got to the bend of her elbow, Miranda actually moaned.

Oh, dear fucking lord. 

Andy wanted her. She wanted Miranda more than she’d ever wanted anyone in her entire life. That she was considering halting this—this _ heavenly fucking ascent _—was utter lunacy, and it might actually kill her. 

But she kept thinking of lines that couldn’t be uncrossed, and Cassidy’s furious face, and of losing Miranda forever.

_ I can’t do this _. 

She was crazy. She was absolutely fucking bonkers, she’d been wanting Miranda for over ten years and now she _ had her _—well, almost—and she was going to turn her down. 

_ What do you want—a profession of love _? Jesus, Andy. 

She stopped.

She heard Miranda’s soft, shaky exhale. Felt the muscles in her hand tense just a little. When it was clear Andy wasn’t going to continue, Miranda started to pull back, and Andy could practically feel the temperature of the room start to plummet. 

Andy caught her hand before she did. “Wait,” she murmured. “Just—”

She thought for a moment about explaining, about telling Miranda that she was terrified of fucking this up. About how her entire emotional sphere had been completely upended the moment Miranda walked through the door at Starbucks and back into her life. 

It wouldn’t have been enough. In fact, Andy was pretty sure it would have slammed a door between them, and then, for good measure, welded it shut. So instead of saying anything else, she pulled both knees up onto the bed, braced a hand on either side of Miranda’s head, and kissed her.

She felt the small muscles around Miranda’s mouth—taut with displeasure when Andy’s lips hit hers—abruptly loosen. Felt the tension in Miranda’s body suddenly release. She didn’t kiss back, and Andy thought, for one awful, soul-crushing second, that she had made an unforgivable mistake.

And then Miranda’s lips tightened again, but this time it very definitely wasn’t because of unhappiness. She murmured softly against Andy’s mouth, and then she was kissing Andy back.

Andy fell.

She fell with the full knowledge that she’d never, ever re-emerge. This was permanent. This was terminal. This was—

This was _ incredible. _

Miranda’s hands had come up and Andy felt them on her shoulder blades, curling almost painfully into Andy’s skin. Andy tasted her toothpaste, her lip balm, the muted lovely essence of her breath beneath artificial vanilla and mint.

When Andy finally pulled back, she was breathing so hard she felt like she’d been doing wind sprints up the stairs. 

Miranda’s eyes were closed. Her cheeks were flushed. Her lips were—good lord, parted and kiss-swollen and shining. Andy could see her pulse thrumming double-time in her throat.

Andy opened her mouth to explain, but to her astonishment, Miranda got there first.

“If you—” Her voice was hoarse, uneven. She swallowed and tried again, eyes still closed. “If you have reservations, Andrea, now would be the time to voice them.”

Miranda’s eyes flew open at Andy’s bleat of shocked laughter. The expression on her face flashed from apprehension to mortified outrage. 

“No!” Andy leaned down and kissed Miranda again in an attempt to wipe the horrified look off her face. “I always laugh at the wrong times—I’m so sorry.” She tried to bite back her grin, couldn’t, and instead buried her face in the curve of Miranda’s neck. “I’m sorry,” she said again, and the movement of her lips against Miranda’s throat elicited a shiver and sound that were both _ extremely _ appealing. “It’s just that—I was afraid that _ you _ were the one who was going to regret this.” 

“_ I _?” Miranda put both hands on Andy’s shoulders and pushed her away. She looked genuinely surprised. “I do not often make decisions that I regret, Andrea.”

“Yeah, well,” Andy said, thinking of the disastrous Cell submission, “I didn’t want to be the reason you start.” She sat back and pulled Miranda’s hand into her lap, rubbing the pad of her thumb over the smooth lavender polish. She could feel Miranda’s gaze on her.

“If I gave you any indication that I had—misgivings—about you,” Miranda said quietly, reaching up to cover Andy’s worrying fingers with her free hand, “I am truly sorry.”

Andy looked at her. 

There was no trace of uncertainty on her face. No hint of the affronted fury of moments before. She was looking at Andy much in the same way as she’d looked at her at the Modern: unguarded, and gentle; and if Andy wasn’t very much mistaken, with affection. 

A sudden thought occurred to Andy, so elating that it felt like the top of her head might detach and float away. She could kiss those lips again, if she wanted to. She could run her hands up Miranda’s sides, and push that filmy nightgown out of the way. She might even be permitted to bury her face between Miranda’s thighs and not come up for hours. 

Holy _ shit _.

She fumbled, trying to find the words, tripping over her own idiotic smile. “I, um,” she started, and stopped. No. Reply to her statement, Andy instructed herself. “You didn’t,” she said, looking down at their twined fingers and then back at Miranda’s expectant face. “It was all—it was all me. I just—I wasn’t expecting you to—”

She broke off, now grinning too hard to finish. 

“Do you need a moment to collect yourself?” Miranda asked, sounding faintly amused.

“Maybe,” Andy admitted. “I just, um. I kind of wanted to, um. Take things slow. You know. In case you weren’t, um, sure, or whatever.” She glanced back at Miranda’s face to see what her reaction might be. 

The amusement on Miranda’s face had blossomed from faint to undeniable. “What a decidedly non-millennial proposal,” she said, her lips curling in an expression that was caught somewhere between a smile and a smirk.

“Oh, shut up,” Andy said, and was Miranda _ teasing _ her? 

“By all means, then,” Miranda continued, pulling her hands away, the smirk/smile widening every-so-slightly, “if slow you want, slow you shall have.” She reached up and stroked her thumb, very gently and with total intention, across Andy’s lower lip, never taking her gaze from Andy’s.

Wow. No matter what Andy did, it seemed it was the total wrong thing. And yet—and yet Miranda had just made it pretty clear that there would be a next time. 

And if _ this _ time had been any indication, it would be pretty fucking good. 

“Yeah,” Andy managed to say, as Miranda’s hand withdrew. She shifted and climbed off the bed. Even now—even after kissing Andy senseless _ in her bed _, Miranda’s cue for her dismissal was both impeccable and irrefutable. She took a step back, her head spinning, her heart on a cloud. “Well. Um. Good night, Miranda.”

Miranda pulled the duvet up over her shoulder, the whisper of a smile still on her lips. “Good night, Andrea,” she said.

***


	9. Chapter 9

This is the same place, love

No, not the same place we’ve been before

_ Gravity (Vienna Teng) _

_ *** _

Andy half expected Miranda to act as though nothing had happened when she came downstairs the next morning. She’d lain awake for an hour after retreating to her own bed, and it was only after she’d given in and stroked herself to a silent, shaking orgasm—all the while imagining Miranda upstairs, doing the very same—that she’d finally fallen into a fitful sleep. She woke before seven, having dreamt of bare shoulders, and a long pale throat, and soft gasping breaths in her ear. 

She listened. The house was quiet.

There was no use in pretending she was going to be able to go back to sleep, so she brushed her teeth and showered and dressed. When she emerged from the bathroom, she heard Miranda moving around upstairs. 

Inspiration hit. She trotted down to the kitchen, made two cups of coffee, and climbed to the fourth floor.

“Miranda?” she called out, before reaching the landing.

The response was immediate. “Come in.”

Miranda was sitting at her vanity, and Andy was a little disappointed to see that she, too, was dressed—in full Runway regalia, complete with makeup and heels.

“Don’t look so dismayed,” she said, meeting Andy’s eyes in the mirror and lifting an eyebrow. “I have meetings all day, and the Jennifer Lawrence shoot is this afternoon.”

“No, I—” Andy gestured vainly with the coffee mugs, feeling like an idiot. Of course Miranda had to work. Thank God she hadn’t put the pajamas back on after her shower. 

Miranda capped the lipstick she’d been applying and replaced it in the vanity drawer, then stood and crossed the room. “Thank you,” she said, divesting Andy of not one but both mugs of coffee. She set them down on the end table by the armchair, then took Andy by the elbows, pulled her forward, and brushed her lips very lightly against Andy’s. 

Okay. Well. Not as though nothing had happened, after all. 

“The gala is in two and a half weeks,” Miranda said, her hands still cupping Andy’s elbows, index fingers lightly stroking Andy’s triceps.

Andy looked up at her, feeling extremely short in her bare feet. “Okay,” she said, trying to decipher Miranda’s neutral expression. It felt strange to be this close to Miranda in full Runway mode—almost as though she was a completely different person.

“There are countless preparations still to be made,” Miranda continued, her blue gaze so intent it made Andy feel a little like she was going to tip headfirst into it. “I do not expect to be available for any social reasons until then.”

_ Oof _ . Andy thought a blow to the gut would have been less painful. Was this Miranda’s version of letting her down easy? If so, _ damn. _

“Andrea.” 

Andy’s gaze snapped back to Miranda’s. “Yeah,” she said automatically.

Miranda’s eyebrows had crept up incrementally. “Your defeatism regarding my—” she paused—“_ affection _ for you is beginning to border on pathological.”

Andy’s stomach flipped. “Oh,” she said lamely. What was the appropriate response to a statement like _that?_ _My affection for you_. “I’m sorry,” she added.

“Your apology is both unwarranted and undesired,” Miranda said, releasing her arms and stepping back. She went to a tall jewelry armoire, opened a drawer, and took out a pair of earrings. “As I’ve said, I will be unavailable prior to the gala, but Andrea—”

Andy’s hands knotted at her waist. She felt like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Yeah?”

Miranda turned away from her, looking into the vanity mirror as she slid green drop earrings into her ears. When she continued, her voice was not quite steady. “I would be very pleased if you would accompany me on the night.” 

_ Bam _. The shoe hit the floor. It was a Manolo, maybe. Or a Jimmy Choo. “Like a—like as your date?” Andy squeaked, before she could stop herself. 

Miranda’s breath huffed out, and Andy saw her shoulders draw up. But when Miranda turned around, her cheeks were bright red, and she didn’t quite meet Andy’s eyes. “Honestly,” she said tightly, “the _ terminology _ you use.” She brushed past Andy toward the door. 

“But yes,” she added over her shoulder, as she started down the stairs, “if you must. As my date.”

Andy’s grin was so wide she felt her cheek cramp up. “Okay,” she called after Miranda. “Yep. Love to.”

Miranda paused on the third. “I’ll leave a key in the foyer,” she said, her voice as cool as ever, despite the blush. “Lock up when you leave.” 

Her heels clacked on the stairs. A moment later, Andy heard the front door open, then close again.

Andy stood there for a moment, in Miranda’s empty room. Looking at the bed she’d been in the night before. At the champagne-colored silk nightgown that had been tossed over the vanity chair. 

_ No way this is your life, _ Trixie had said. 

If she was being honest, she couldn’t quite believe it herself.

***

“It’s about time you got home,” Trixie yelled. 

A second later, her bedroom door opened. There were squares of foil folded on either side of her face, and she was scowling.

“Oh, crap,” Andy said. 

“Yeah, _ oh crap _ .” Trixie pointed emphatically at the foil. “I had to do it _ myself _and you know I’m bad at it. If it all falls out, it’s your fault.”

Andy flinched. “You know, you could go to a salon.”

“_ Not _the point!” Trixie snapped. “The point is you forgot. I hope you have a better excuse than more unrequited pining from her guest room.”

Andy hesitated a moment too long.

Trixie’s eyebrows shot up. “You didn’t,” she said, her expression flipping from annoyed to shocked. She flung both hands in the air. “You did!”

“No. I didn’t. I mean, kind of.” Andy put her bag down on the table. 

“What kind of answer is that?” Trixie demanded. She grabbed Andy’s wrist and hauled her toward the bathroom. “Come on. I have to rinse this out.”

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?” 

“Not on your life,” Trixie said, “but I’ll grant you a stay of punition in exchange for all the salacious details.”

“_ Punition _,” Andy said. “Your English degree is showing.”

“Start rinsing,” Trixie said, turning on the bathtub, “and start talking.”

By the time Trixie’s hair was shampooed and conditioned—she’d done a decent job after all, despite her aggrieved assertions that she’d missed spots and it was Andy’s fault—Andy had recounted about seventy-five percent of the evening. By the time it was dried, Trixie had become alarmingly quiet.

“Andy,” she said, taking the hair dryer out of Andy’s hand and putting it on the counter, “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I have some concerns.”

“What are you talking about?” Andy said, staring. “You’ve been telling me to sleep with her for the past six _ weeks _.”

“Yeah,” Trixie said. She looked down at her hands, then back at Andy. “But, dude, that was before you—” She broke off, then looked at Andy and grimaced. “You, like, really _ like _ her,” she said.

Andy felt her cheeks heat up. “Yeah,” she said. “I do.”

“You’re not going to one and done it, are you,” Trixie said. It wasn’t a question.

“Uh.” Andy fidgeted. “No.”

“This was a lot more fun before you went and got _ feelings _ involved,” Trixie said, looking pained.

***

She typed about six text messages to Miranda over the following week and sent zero. They all sounded ridiculous and trite and she couldn’t imagine what kind of response they would garner. She asked Trixie once or twice, but she’d gone oddly quiet about the whole thing, and kept giving Andy disturbingly thoughtful looks whenever the topic of Miranda or the gala came up.

“Okay,” Andy finally said, after the third time Trixie stopped talking and just stared at her, “_ what _.”

Trixie exhaled hard through her nose and closed her laptop. “Truth?”

“_ Yes, _ truth,” Andy said impatiently. 

“I don’t think she’s good for you,” Trixie said in a rush. 

Andy stiffened. Defensive anger twisted in her stomach. “You don’t know that,” she snapped. 

“Down, girl.” Trixie held up a hand. “Of course I don’t know that. I’ve never met the woman.” She sighed. “But Andy, I’ve been yanked around before.”

The twist in Andy’s stomach tightened. “She’s not yanking me around.”

“Andy.” Trixie leaned forward. “She got you in bed. She kissed you. She’s _ dressing _ you, for God’s sake. And then she blows you off for a week? Worse, she straight-up _ tells _ you she’s going to blow you off?”

“She’s busy,” Andy said tightly.

“There’s busy,” Trixie said, “and there’s manipulative.” She turned back toward her computer. “I just hope you can tell the difference.”

***

It was nothing, Andy told herself. Miranda was busy. The magazine came first. She knew that going into this. She had her eyes _ open _, damn it. 

But Trixie’s comments...stuck with her. Disturbingly so. Enough that by the ten-day mark, Andy was antsy and irritable and _ definitely _ second-guessing her interpretation of the events of a week and a half ago.

She had no fewer than nine texts to Miranda saved in her drafts. She jumped every time the phone rang. She was short with Cassidy, and she was late for two of their three meetings that week. 

“Andy.” Cassidy stared at her over her laptop. “What...the hell.”

Andy jumped. “What?”

“You just stopped talking. In the middle of a sentence.”

Andy sighed and rubbed a hand over her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. 

“We’re submitting this _ next week _,” Cassidy said, frowning. “If you don’t have time—”

“No,” Andy interrupted her. “I have time. I’m sorry. I just—I’ve been—preoccupied.”

Cassidy’s frown deepened. “Clearly.”

“Let’s—can we revisit Table 1?” Andy looked down. 

“_ Andy _.” Cassidy looked as though she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. “We finalized Table 1 half an hour ago.” 

“Oh, God, Cassidy. I really am sorry.” 

Cassidy closed her computer. “You know what?” she said. “I think I’ll head home.”

***

Andy sent Cassidy her final edits for the draft that evening, along with a note: _ Truly sorry about today. See my comments. Let’s meet early on Thursday and we can finalize formatting. _

She actually sort of held her breath until Cassidy replied. _ No worries. I’m not mad. See you Thursday. _

***

On Wednesday morning, her phone rang. It woke her out of a sound sleep and for a moment she was confused—what was that _ song _? 

And then she bolted awake when she realized that it was the ring tone she’d assigned Miranda’s number.

She fumbled the phone, almost dropped it, and finally swiped to answer. “Hi,” she said, trying to sound awake.

“I woke you,” Miranda said. 

“No—yes, a little.” Andy sat up. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Miranda made a little humming sound. “I find myself unexpectedly uncommitted this evening,” she said, after a beat. “I was wondering if you would—I thought I might ask you to come for dinner. As—” She cleared her throat. “As a...reparation, of sorts. For our last meal together.”

“Um. Yes. Yeah.” A little butterfly of hope beat its wings against Andy’s ribcage. “That would be great. What time?”

“Let’s say eight,” Miranda said, and then, quietly: “Thank you, Andrea.”

“I—you’re welcome, Miranda,” Andy said, and the call ended.

***

“You’re a bad friend,” Trixie said.

“I know.” Andy said, cringing.

“You’re abandoning me for not one but _ two _ weeks?” Trixie glared and pointed at the coffee mug that was still on Walt’s desk. “I’m going to put the next wad of gum I find in your tea.”

“I’m sorry,” Andy said pleadingly. “Maybe we can go tomorrow instead?”

“Tomorrow,” Trixie said darkly, “is a six AM class, _ Andrea _.”

_ “ _I’ll do it for you.” Andy clasped her hands under her chin. “Forgive me.”

Trixie rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she said, “but under duress, and because I am eternally magnanimous.”

“Thank you.”

“_ But _ .” Trixie pointed her pen at Andy. “I still don’t think it’s healthy and we _ are _going to talk about this.”

“After the gala,” Andy promised.

Another eye roll. “After the gala.”

***

At six-fifteen, Andy’s phone buzzed with a text from Miranda. _ I’m afraid plans have changed. Roy will pick you up at 7. _

Not exactly surprising, given Miranda’s history, but Andy was disappointed all the same. She sent back an affirmation and then texted Roy. _ Dress code? _

_ The usual _, Roy sent back. 

_ Don’t suppose I can ask where we’re going _?

He sent back a shrug emoji. 

She’d used her _ good _ outfit on the dinner at the Modern, so she raided Trixie’s closet—a green BCBG dress from last season. 

“I’m the best,” Trixie said, teasing the last strand of Andy’s hair into place with practiced fingers, “and you’re the worst.”

“Agree on both counts,” Andy said. “Thanks, Trix.”

“Whatever.” Trixie patted her butt as she bent to slide on her shoes. “Bring me the leftovers. If you make it home, that is.”

“Promise,” Andy said, closing the apartment door behind her.

***

It was a restaurant called Hamamelis, and it was, again, uncharacteristically trendy. Miranda was really internalizing this modern art aesthetic. 

The maitre d’ —did they call them that in expensive hipster restaurants?—led Andy to a small room in the back of the restaurant. It had a circular booth and table, a single dim pendant light, and a curtain that closed it off from the rest of the small establishment. It was _ extremely _ intimate. 

“May I bring you a cocktail while you wait?” The server was young, red-haired, nervous-looking. 

Andy had a feeling she’d need all her wits about her. “Just water, thank you.”

She sipped her water, and played with her phone, and waited. 

And waited.

And waited.

At eight, after nearly thirty minutes, she finally heard Miranda’s footsteps over the murmur and clank of the other diners. 

She might have stood, had she not been waiting for the past half hour. She might have stood, had she not spent two weeks doubting everything Miranda had said and done. 

_ I just hope you can tell the difference _, Trixie had said. 

Was she right?

She had drawn herself up—had readied herself to give Miranda a _ piece of her mind _—and then the curtain was drawn aside and Miranda stepped into little room, and the words died in her throat.

Miranda looked terrible_ . _Her makeup had been wiped away, but there were residual smudges under her eyes, which were red-rimmed and puffy. She was as pale as a ghost. 

“_ Miranda _,” Andy breathed, and she did stand up then, to take Miranda’s arm and guide her to the booth. “Sit down. What happened? What’s wrong?”

Miranda made a movement that was clearly meant to be dismissive, but she let Andy pull her over to the table. 

“I, um.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I spoke with Cassidy this afternoon.”

Andy’s stomach clenched. She gritted her teeth and forced a neutral expression. “Oh?”

Miranda looked straight at her. “I told her about you,” she said.

So much for neutrality. Andy felt the blood drain from her face. She opened her mouth, found absolutely no words, and closed it again.

“She did not...” Miranda paused. “Take it well. As you can imagine.”

“I—” Andy reached for her phone. There were no text messages, but—

She clicked on her email app, and there they were. Three messages from Cassidy with blank subject lines, the last one sent fifteen minutes ago. Her heart sank.

The server chose that moment to appear. She took one look at Miranda, and a second look at Andy, and got the hell out of there. Andy didn’t even have to wave her off. 

“She...” Miranda swung a hand at Andy. “She went on about—taking over everything she’d ever done, and my—my inability to maintain boundaries, and how I couldn’t even—” Her voice caught. “Couldn’t even resist taking from her the people that she cares about.” 

Her eyes were bright. She was trembling. 

“Miranda...” Andy reached for Miranda’s hand. It was as cold as ice. 

And what could she say? Cassidy was a grown woman, even if she was a little—emotionally precious, perhaps. Could she give up Miranda for Cassidy’s sake? 

She wanted to think that she valued Cassidy’s friendship. She wanted to believe that Miranda’s relationship with her daughter was more important than Andy’s—what had Trixie called it?—_ unrequited pining _ for Miranda.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? It _ wasn’t _ unrequited. It was about as requited as you could fucking get. Miranda deserved a little happiness.

For that matter, so did she.

Cassidy hadn’t bothered to tell Miranda she’d moved in with Patrick the Fiancé until two weeks after the fact. At least Miranda was trying to keep things aboveboard. 

It smacked Andy in the face on the second go-round. Miranda had _ told Cassidy about Andy _. 

Unrequited, my ass. She couldn’t wait to gloat to Trixie. Now, though—

Now there was the small matter of a very distraught Miranda in the booth next to her. 

“I can’t make this better,” Andy said. 

Miranda’s expression cleared, just a little. She gave a watery sniff, her brow furrowing. “How astonishingly helpful,” she said, some of her usual snap back in her tone. 

Andy bumped the pad of her thumb over Miranda’s knuckles, index finger to pinky and back again. She took a deep breath. “I don’t know what it’s like to be a parent,” she said slowly. “But I know...I know you love the girls.” 

“Of _ course—” _

But Andy wasn’t done. “I know you’ve made mistakes, because we all have, but it shows up more when you’re a mom, and that’s not fair,” she said, thinking of her own mother. Of the things she’d said to her when she was angry. “I know that Cassidy loves you. I know she hates being mad at you.”

At this, Miranda’s breath caught. Fresh tears filled her eyes.

“And I know,” Andy said, squeezing Miranda’s fingers as tightly as she dared, “that everything you’ve done for them, mistake or not, was done out of love.”

Miranda blinked. The tears in her eyes spilled over and dripped onto the table. There were no sobs—Miranda didn’t sob. She didn’t even sniff. She just sat like a stone, breathing deeply.

She was quiet for so long after that that Andy started to get nervous. Had she said the wrong thing? Was Miranda upset, now, with her?

And then Miranda closed her eyes and said, “Everything, perhaps, but one.”

Andy looked at her, confused. 

Miranda’s fingers tightened in hers. She met Andy’s gaze. 

“It seems,” she said at last, her voice much steadier now, “that my most recent indictment as a mother stems from the fact that no matter how much my daughter wishes it, I am simply unable to give you up.”

It was fucking uncanny how Miranda was able to just _ decimate _ Andy’s entire world on a regular basis with just one sentence.

“I, um.” Andy felt herself blushing and looked down. “Miranda, the last thing I want—”

“I think,” Miranda said, putting her free hand on Andy’s forearm, “that I would like to concern myself more with the _ first _ thing you want.”

Andy met her gaze. She looked much calmer now. Not distraught any longer. Not crying or puffy-eyed. 

Andy smiled at her, then brought Miranda’s hand to her lips and kissed her fingertips. 

“Fries,” she said. “I’m starving.”


	10. Chapter 10

I am a constant satellite

Of your blazing sun

_ Gravity (Vienna Teng) _

_ *** _

3:59 pm

_ Just forget it. I expected it from her because she has no boundaries and never has. I shouldn’t even be surprised. Just forget the paper and everything, were you friends with me to get to her? I can’t even believe this. The thing with cell and now this, jesus. Aisha will finish it, you don’t need to, I hope you both are very happy together. _

6:12 pm

_ Can we talk? _

7:47pm

_ Okay, I might have freaked out a little too soon. I don’t think you were friends with me to get to her. I shouldn’t have said that. I still want to work with you. I’m sorry UGHHH. She’s my mom and I love her but sometimes I hate her. I’m not mad at you. Call me. _

***

Andy remembered what it was like to be twenty-two, and she _ hadn’t _been chronically spoiled, which was why she forgave Cassidy for the email pretty much immediately.

“But,” she said via FaceTime the following day, “you really need to talk to your mom.”

Cassidy flopped backward, disappearing from view. “I know,” she said.

“She loves you very much,” Andy said to Cassidy’s bedroom wall.

One hand shot up from the bottom of the screen and gave Andy the finger. 

“She was really sad,” Andy added, just to rub it in a little. 

A second middle finger joined the first, then dropped off the screen. A half second later, the call ended. 

***

She sent Miranda a text on Sunday evening. Just one line. _ I’m thinking of you. _

She wasn’t expecting a response—the gala was just four days off, now, and Miranda was surely burning the candle at both ends—but the phone dinged a moment later.

_ I’m thinking of you too _. 

***

Roy picked her up on Wednesday in a black Escalade.

“This is fancy,” Andy said, maneuvering herself into the car and mashing down a cloud of fabric flowers in order to fasten her seatbelt. 

“Yeah, you know,” Roy said. “It’s an _ event _. You look nice.”

Andy grinned, remembering Miranda’s incisive commentary about the word _ nice _. “Thanks.”

“We’ll go get her and then head to the museum,” Roy said, pulling into the street. “You ready?”

Andy grimaced. “No.”

“You’ll be great.” He smiled at her in the rearview mirror. “And even if you’re not, she’ll make sure you are.”

Wasn’t that the truth. Miranda had sent a makeup artist to her apartment that morning. She was made up, polished, and sparkling. She was also nervous as hell. 

At least, she was nervous until the door of the townhouse opened, and Miranda stepped out.

“Oh,” she breathed. She didn’t see the look Roy gave her in the rearview mirror. She didn’t notice that her clutch had fallen off her lap. She didn’t see anything but Miranda.

She’d thought Miranda looked amazing at Nigel’s party, but this—

Her gown was black—no, wait—blue. When the sun caught it, Andy saw that it shimmered as she moved. It had a figure-hugging silhouette, and off-the-shoulder sleeves, and a row of small fabric roses along the neckline. Drop earrings the exact shade of Andy’s dress sparkled at her earlobes. 

She wanted to get out of the car, but she was entangled in voluminous fabric and Roy was too quick anyway. He was at Miranda’s side, offering his arm, and Andy felt a rush of misplaced envy as he walked her down to the car. But then he was opening the door, and—

“Andrea.” Her lips parted. Her blue eyes flashed. She stopped, one hand on the car door, one foot on the running board. And maybe it was the dress, and maybe it was the anticipation of the gala; and maybe it was just the fact that they’d started something nearly three weeks ago that had yet to find any resolution; but Miranda’s expression was pure desire and it was all Andy could do to keep from pouncing on her on the spot.

But the moment passed, and Miranda seemed to recover. She took Andy’s offered hand and climbed into the car, sliding into the seat next to her.

There was no privacy screen in the Escalade, an oversight for which Andy would happily have groin-attacked the entire Cadillac Board of Directors. So no backseat making out. She had to settle, instead, for leaning over to Miranda and growling “you look absolutely _ edible _” in her ear. Which, when she saw the deep flush ascend from Miranda’s cleavage to her throat, was actually almost as good.

The traffic was a snarl, but it didn’t take as long to get to the museum as Andy had thought it might. By the time the Escalade pulled up to the red carpet, she was bordering on terrified. _ No one will even pay attention to me _ , she reassured herself, as Roy opened Miranda’s door. _ No one will care. _She thought she’d just walk beside Miranda, maybe a step or two behind. She remembered the red carpet in Paris. She might have been invisible. 

Not tonight.

Miranda stepped out of the car, and the paparazzi went absolutely insane. Flashbulbs went off with seizure-inducing frequency. It took her a moment for her to realize that the cameras were aimed _ at her. _It took another moment for her to realize why. 

Miranda had slipped a hand into the crook of her elbow. 

“Don’t look directly at them,” came her murmur in Andy’s ear, and then she was moving, steering Andy up the red carpet, her smile as dazzling as the gemstones flashing at her earlobes. Her hand was warm, her fingers solid and reassuring. The terrified feeling started to dissipate, and in its place was something that felt suspiciously like elation.

“All right?” Miranda said, glancing at Andy out of the corner of her eye. Her hand on Andy’s arm tightened. 

Andy would have happily dived directly into the pile of photographers if meant that Miranda would keep touching her. “Yes,” she said. 

Miranda’s voice pitched lower. “You are a vision,” she added. Sudden coolness on Andy’s skin as her elbow was released. Her stomach dropped in disappointment.

And then flipped its way back up into place when she felt Miranda’s hand take up firm residence on her lower back. 

She had assumed that _ date _ meant that she would sit by Miranda at dinner. Would circulate the room with her. Might even chat up a few celebrities with whom Miranda was friendly. She _ definitely _ hadn’t thought that _ date _meant Miranda purring in her ear, or caressing her arm, or guiding her through the throng of paparazzi with a proprietary hand on her spine. 

“You are making it very difficult to smile and look pretty,” Andy managed to say out of the side of her mouth, because Miranda’s fingertips were now gliding down her side and sending heat through her entire lower body.

“You hardly need any help with that,” Miranda replied, pressing gently into Andy’s hip and moving her toward the steps. Halfway up them, she turned away from Andy, allowing the photographers to capture her gown in its entirety, and fired a smile like a heat-seeking missile. “Over here,” she added in an undertone.

Andy turned and bared her teeth in what she hoped was a decent approximation of a grin. Miranda’s hand had slid even further over her hip and was now curled around her waist. There was absolutely no ambiguity in the pose. None whatsoever.

She could feel her phone buzzing in her clutch and abruptly realized that this was airing in way, way more places than New York. Ohio, for example.

She heard a reporter yell. “Miranda! Who’s your date?”

A science editor. A former employee. Just some kid from Cincinnati. 

In other words, no one worth jeopardizing Miranda’s reputation.

She didn’t pull away, but when Miranda turned and guided her toward the museum entrance, she had to say something. “Miranda.”

Miranda must have heard the weight in her tone, because for a moment the glittering smile was replaced by delicately pursed lips. “Andrea?”

Andy hesitated. She glanced down at Miranda’s hand on her waist. “You have a lot of,” she started, and stopped. “I don’t want to mess anything up for you.”

Miranda’s eyebrow lifted. “I fail to see how you could.”

“Miranda.” Andy felt slightly desperate. “People will _ talk _.” 

She expected the light touch at her waist to withdraw, but instead, she felt Miranda’s hand tighten. She brought her lips to Andy’s cheek. 

“Let them,” she said.

***

The red carpet had been the worst of it. Once Andy was inside the museum, she realized it was just another fundraiser. A super expensive, super glitzy fundraiser where she’d seen no fewer than three Kardashians, true, but a fundraiser all the same. 

“Awful, isn’t it?” Cassidy said, draping herself over a bench and tossing back half a glass of champagne in one gulp. She was wearing the most bizarre outfit Andy had ever seen on her: a mid-length patchwork gown with a black lace overlay, fishnet stockings, and two different shoes. She looked like Helena Bonham Carter’s weirder younger sibling.

“Stand up,” Caroline snapped, yanking her sister’s arm. “You look like a drunk.”

Cassidy rolled her eyes and gestured at the crowd with her empty glass. “Caro, half these people are drunks,” she said, but she stood up anyway. “Oh, there’s Taylor. I’m going to go say hi.” 

“_ Mom _ .” Caroline turned to Miranda, her face screwed up with exasperation. “Can’t you _ do _ something about her?”

Miranda watched Cassidy thread through the crowd. 

“No, darling,” she said, a faint smile on her lips. “I can’t.”

***

The food was outstanding, the wine expensive and abundant. The music selection was exceptional. Andy had had a twenty-minute conversation with a Hemsworth brother about vintage clock repair. It was, she was certain, an event that a million other girls would have killed to attend. 

All she could think about, though, was Miranda. 

Miranda, who hadn’t left her side for more than a quarter of an hour the whole evening. She introduced Andy to _ everyone _, always with one hand somewhere on Andy’s body, leaving scalding imprints with every touch. 

Andy burned.

At one point, in the middle of a conversation with Donna Karan, Miranda casually reached up and brushed her thumb over the angle of Andy’s jaw. Andy saw stars.

“You are going to kill me,” she muttered in Miranda’s ear, when Donna had drifted away. 

Miranda just smiled.

***

Andy had sort of thought—hoped—that tonight she would have the opportunity to rescind her statement that she wanted to take it slow. Taking it slow, Andy now realized, was not only a spectacularly stupid idea, it was also completely impractical. Slow, with Miranda’s work schedule, was absolutely glacial. Also, Miranda had been driving her insane all evening. She’d spent the entirety of the gala in a state of constant, low-level arousal.

Unfortunately, as host, Miranda had to talk to just about everyone in attendance. This meant that by the time they left the museum, it was after two in the morning.

Miranda was very quiet as they climbed into the Escalade. Her hair had started to fall out of its perfect waves, and she removed the earrings as soon as she was in the car. 

“You okay?” Andy asked, but Miranda just tipped her head back and closed her eyes. 

Andy slid her hand across the seat until it bumped Miranda’s thigh. She thought perhaps Miranda would ignore it, or even pull away, but instead Miranda reached down and threaded her fingers through Andy’s. 

For most of the gala, Andy had been fighting the urge to pin Miranda up against a colorblock canvas and kiss her senseless. Now, though, a little warm glow in her chest started to compete with the low throb of heat between her legs. 

By the time they got to the townhouse, it was nearly three. There was no discussion about whether or not Andy was staying over; she just got out of the car and followed Miranda inside. At the third floor, Miranda stopped and turned around.

“I am,” she said, with the faintest hint of regret in her voice, “extraordinarily tired.”

“Yeah.” Andy tried not to feel crestfallen. “Me too.” 

Miranda looked, for a moment, as though she might say something else. An apology, or simply another gentle deferral. Maybe, Andy thought, she’d gotten it wrong the whole evening. Maybe Miranda didn’t want her, after all. 

“Don’t—” Miranda breathed, and then her mouth was on Andy’s.

Andy’s knees turned to water, and if Miranda’s hands hadn’t locked onto her waist she might have actually keeled over. _ Oh _. Miranda’s lips were soft, and searching, and at that moment, if she had asked for the moon, Andy would have hijacked a rocket. 

It was over too quickly. “Promise me there’s more where that came from,” Andy murmured, eyes closed.

She felt Miranda smile against her mouth. “I think I can manage it,” she said. “Just not tonight. Good night, Andrea.” She let go.

Andy groaned, watching her ascend to the fourth floor. “Good night.”

***

By the time Andy crawled into bed—released from Spanx and the dress, scrubbed of layers of makeup—her body was aching with exhaustion. It was probably good, she thought drowsily, that Miranda had put her off. She wasn’t twenty-five any more. Very late nights were rarely conducive to good sex these days. 

She had just drifted off when she heard Miranda’s footsteps on the stairs. 

Her eyes flew open. She froze, listening. 

Step. Step. Pause. Another step. She heard Miranda sigh, and she smiled into the darkness, because the sigh sounded annoyed, and it was so typically _ Miranda. _

The footsteps paused outside of Andy’s door. Another sigh, softer this time, and the sound made Andy’s body thrum. 

“Are you awake?” Miranda’s voice was pitched low. 

“Yes.” 

Miranda hesitated. “May I—”

“_ Yes _,” Andy breathed, and then Miranda was pushing the door the rest of the way and stepping inside.

It took, by Andy’s estimation, fourteen hours for her to cross the room, and when she got to the bed, she didn’t quite seem to know what to do. So Andy sat up, pushed back the blanket, and reached for Miranda’s hand.

“Here,” she murmured, and Miranda slid between the sheets beside her.

_ Oh _. 

Miranda’s hair was damp and cool against Andy’s forehead. She was so close that Andy could feel the warm puff of her breath. 

“Hi,” Andy whispered. 

Miranda’s response was a tremulous exhalation that turned Andy’s insides molten. “Just—” she managed, and seized Andy’s hand, and pressed it hard between her thighs.

Andy’s brain completely short-circuited. 

She dimly registered Miranda’s low moan. The heat under her fingers. The almost-painful press of Miranda’s hand atop hers. 

Miranda’s forehead was creased, her eyes closed, her mouth open in an expression that might have been mistaken for agony. Her breath came fast and shallow and Andy had better get it the fuck together.

She wrenched herself free, ignoring Miranda’s soft yelp of dismay. Then she slid her hand over Miranda’s stomach, beneath the waistband of her pajama pants and underwear. Down to where Miranda was swollen and slick, where the first press of Andy’s fingers made Miranda jerk and cry out. Gentle at first, and then deeper, until Miranda was gasping into Andy's shoulder and clutching at her waist.

It didn't take long. She came with her fist in Andy’s hair and her teeth sunk into Andy's flesh, and Andy was utterly, utterly lost. 

When Miranda's breathing slowed, she withdrew her hand and wiped it on her own pajamas. Then she wrapped her arm around Miranda and kissed the side of her head. 

“I—” The barest gasp against Andy’s throat. “Forgive me.”

Andy made a strangled sound that might have been an incredulous laugh had she not been so shocked. “Are you kidding?” she murmured into Miranda’s hair. “That was the best thing to happen to anyone this century.”

“You insist on hyperbole,” Miranda said, but she sounded relieved, and Andy felt her shoulders relax. She slid her hand from Andy’s hair to the back of her neck.

Andy angled her head to kiss along Miranda’s jaw to her earlobe. “And here I thought you were too tired.”

“Your ability to invigorate me—” Miranda yawned hugely—“is truly astonishing.” She reached for Andy’s waist, but Andy caught her hand. The glow in her chest threatened to burn her alive.

“Tomorrow,” Andy said.

“Andrea—” 

Andy kissed her knuckles. “Sleep.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lil painting of our ladies at the gala: https://thejanewestin.tumblr.com/post/190733104392/mirandy-at-the-gala-from-my-fic-gravity


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you lovely, lovely people. I adore you all. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your beautiful words and feedback on this story. You have made this writer SO very happy. I will reply to each of you, I promise, but I wanted to make sure to get another chapter up within a reasonable time frame! Thank you again. Expect an update within a few days (vacation was exhausting instead of relaxing, but that's okay because DISNEY). 
> 
> PS: There are so many phenomenal underrated things about Schitt's Creek, but I think my favorite is that Roland and Jocelyn canonically ship Mirandy.

This is the fate you’ve carved on me

Your law of gravity

_ Gravity (Vienna Teng) _

_ *** _

Andy’s phone was ringing.

Andy’s phone was ringing, and someone beside her was moving. 

“Turn that infernal thing off,” the someone groaned.

Andy patted the nightstand clumsily, found the buzzing phone, and brought it to her face. Saw who it was. Next to her, Miranda’s entire body went rigid, because she had seen, too. 

Glowing on the screen, under the name _ Brooklyn Lauren _, was a selfie of a grinning Andy and a snub-nosed blond with an undercut and freckles. 

Panic exploded in Andy’s chest. She turned to explain, to tell Miranda that she hadn’t even _ texted _Lauren since the night of Nigel’s party, but it was too late. Miranda whipped the covers back and was on her feet so fast she was almost a blur. 

Andy flung the phone onto the floor. “Miranda.” Her legs tangled in the sheets and she kicked them desperately. “Hey. Miranda!”

But Miranda was already out of the room, her bare footsteps quick and angry on the stairs. A second later, her bedroom door closed. This time, it _ was _ a slam.

Andy had finally managed to get herself upright. “Oh no you don’t,” she muttered, tripping over her own feet in her rush to get to the door. She gritted her teeth, yanked the hem of her T-shirt down, and stalked up the stairs.

She stopped outside Miranda’s door. Should she knock? It seemed stupid to knock after Miranda had basically leapt into her bed the night before, but she also knew how Miranda could be when she was in a temper, and an unannounced entry would likely not be received with any degree of magnanimity. 

She gave in and knocked. “Miranda.”

No answer. She tried the knob. Locked.

She knocked again. “_ Miranda _. Come on.”

Miranda’s voice, all tightly-contained rage, despite the two inches of solid mahogany or whatever between them. “Take something from Cassidy’s closet to wear home.”

“I am not having this conversation through a door,” Andy replied.

There was a long, weighty silence. Then the lock clicked, the door opened, and Miranda was standing in front of her.

“By all means,” she said stiffly. 

Her wintry hair was mussed and sticking up at angles. Her pajamas—clearly meant to be lounged about in, not slept in—were wrinkled. She’d missed a button on the shirt. Were it not for the bright fury on her face, Andy would have been completely and totally charmed.

“_ Thank _ you,” Andy said. Her heart was pounding. She hadn’t done anything wrong—well, other than ditching Lauren—so why was she so nervous? Why, for God’s sake, did she feel _ guilty _? 

She felt about six percent indignant, too, at Miranda’s abrupt response to what Andy was pretty sure was an inaccurate assumption. She tried hard to cling to that six percent when she spoke. 

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it’s not that,” she said, turning to face Miranda. 

Miranda’s eyes were narrow; her mouth was a completely straight line. Andy had seen warmer expressions on the Easter Island statues. “I’m not thinking anything,” she said coldly. She stalked past Andy to her vanity and picked up a brush. 

“Oh yeah?” Andy tried unsuccessfully to meet her gaze in the mirror. “Is that why you shot out of bed like I was a...a mountain troll, or something?”

Miranda’s eyes darted up to Andy’s for a nanosecond. She had the grace, at least, to look momentarily startled. “I did no such thing.”

Andy snorted. “Okay.”

Miranda dropped onto the vanity chair and started yanking the brush through her hair so hard it made Andy wince. “I was allowing you some..._ privacy _...to take your phone call,” she said, her tone somehow simultaneously completely calm and absolutely dripping icicles. 

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Andy came up behind Miranda and took the brush out of her hand. She wedged herself between the chair and the vanity counter. “That was some girl I went on _ three _ dates with over a _ month _ ago.”

Miranda glared at her and snatched the brush back. “I fail to see how your love life is relevant.”

“_ Miranda, _” Andy groaned. “I ghosted her, okay?”

“Again—” Miranda started, but Andy cut her off.

“I ghosted her because of _ you, _ ” she said sharply. “I have no idea why she’s calling me now. _ Not _ that I should have to explain myself, but I will, because I care about you and I don’t want you to think that she means—that she means _ anything—” _ a little pang of guilt at this, because Lauren _ had _ been extremely sweet, and she had _ really _ liked Andy—“and I just—” She put both hands in the air despairingly. “I don’t want you to, I don’t know. Feel bad.”

She stopped. Waited. 

Miranda looked straight ahead at her reflection in the mirror. Her expression was totally neutral, although her lips had relaxed out of the terrifying razor-thin line. It was a very, _ very _ long pause. Finally, Andy couldn’t take it any more. 

“_ Say _ something,” she ordered, nudging Miranda’s shoulder with her fingertips. 

Miranda exhaled slowly. She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap, then back up at her reflection. 

“The girl,” she said quietly at last, “is irrelevant.”

Andy blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Miranda lifted her chin a little. 

“Yeah, I heard you,” Andy said, “but I don’t _ understand _ you. Can you elaborate, please, or do I need to get out my Miranda-to-English dictionary?”

Miranda made a long-suffering noise, as though Andy was the densest person on the planet. Her expression, though, didn’t seem to match the sound. She looked almost _ anxious _, inasmuch as Miranda ever looked anxious.

“Did you ever think, Andrea,” she said, toying with the hem of her pajama top, “that you were perhaps better suited to someone closer to your own age?”

_ Oh _.

Okay.

So it wasn’t just random jealousy, or even Lauren-specific jealousy. This, she understood. _ This _, she could deal with. 

She realized abruptly that she was smiling, and that Miranda looked none too pleased about it. “Something amusing?” she snapped, the anxious look vanishing. She looked straight at Andy, which was, Andy thought, a distinct improvement from the weird self-staring she’d been doing previously.

“Actually, yes,” Andy said, and threaded both hands through Miranda’s hair. At this, Miranda actually jumped a little. “The amusing thing is that you think that anyone—my own age or not—could in any way hold the tiniest, weensiest, little-bittiest candle to you.”

Miranda’s stony expression didn’t waver, but Andy saw color begin to creep into her cheeks. “Is that so,” she said flatly.

“Yeah, that’s so.” Andy curled her fingers, gently tugging Miranda’s hair. She felt Miranda resist, just for the briefest moment, and then she let Andy pull her head back. “That’s,” Andy repeated, bending to brush her lips against Miranda’s jaw, “really, absolutely so.”

“_ Ah _.” Miranda sucked breath as Andy’s teeth scraped over her exposed throat. “Your point,” she added, her voice sounding increasingly strangled, “has been received, but kindly do me a favor.” 

Andy swiped her tongue across the hollow of Miranda’s collarbone, biting back a grin as she felt Miranda’s hands swing up and clutch at her hips. “What’s that?” she murmured.

“Never,” Miranda gasped, arching up into Andy’s mouth, “use the word _ weensiest _ again.”

“I promise,” Andy said, reaching for the buttons of Miranda’s pajama shirt.

“Don’t you have to—to get to the office?” Miranda’s hands tightened.

Andy was already at the third button. “Since when are you worried about my _ work _ schedule?” 

But Miranda, Andy was elated to note as she pushed the pajama top away, was already beyond answering. The flush in her cheeks had spread to her chest and holy _ Christ _ she was beautiful. Andy trailed her lips over the graceful curve of her clavicle, over the pale skin of her shoulder, down her upper arm. Her back was starting to protest, and the backs of her thighs were going numb where they were pressed against the vanity, but she would sooner rupture a disc than stop what she was doing to change position. Not with Miranda literally shaking beneath her. 

How long had it been since she’d had someone in her bed? How long had it been since someone had made her come until she couldn’t see straight? 

In high school, Andy had taken every available AP class. She’d been student council president and placed first in debate at not one but _ three _ state competitions. She’d graduated college with a 3.9 GPA and a model UN championship under her belt. Andy was not a participation-trophy kind of girl.

As such, she intended to get a gold fucking star in Miranda Priestly orgasms. 

She couldn’t believe she’d been so—so _ sophomoric _ last night. This was _ Miranda _ , for crying out loud. She deserved _ artfulness _ , not sweaty, plebeian scrabbling. She was going to do this, and she was going to do it _ right. _

She slid both hands over Miranda’s ribs and dropped to her knees in front of the vanity chair. Miranda’s head was back; her eyes were closed. She’d let go of Andy’s hips. Her fingers were curled around the armrests, so tight that Andy could see the tips had gone white. 

“Just—” she gasped, as she had last night, but Andy didn’t let her own lust get the better of her this time. She dragged her lips down Miranda’s sternum, her thumbs stroking the sides of Miranda’s breasts. Impossibly soft. Impossibly smooth.

And Christ, the _ sounds _ Miranda was making. Low, repetitive moans interspersed with shaky breaths. A quiet “ _ oh _ ” when Andy’s palm skated over her inner thigh. A soft, desperate yelp at Andy’s mouth on her breast. Her hips began to rock, ever so slightly, as Andy’s lips and tongue worked her left nipple into a hard, demanding bud. And now the moans were getting louder, and Andy was finding it increasingly difficult to ignore how fucking _ wet _she was. 

_ Focus, Sachs _, she ordered herself, and moved her ministrations to Miranda’s other breast. 

A quick glance to the side found Miranda’s hands now opening and closing on the armrests. She was breathing harder now, and holy shit, was Miranda about to come just from Andy’s attention to her nipples? The thought made Andy slightly lightheaded. 

But she didn’t know when she’d get this opportunity again, and she for _ sure _ wasn’t going to rush it. Nor was she going to cede an opportunity to get her mouth on every inch of Miranda’s body. She tongued her way to Miranda’s stomach and moved one hand over the soft fabric of Miranda’s pajama pants. 

The angle was awkward and she wouldn’t be able to keep her wrist like this for long, but Miranda’s long, shaking moan at Andy’s first stroke was worth a mild case of carpal tunnel. Miranda’s hips were rocking in earnest now, her pajama pants going from damp to flat-out soaked in moments. She was gasping. “_ Andrea _,” she managed, and at that—at Andy’s name in Miranda’s mouth, thin and tight with desire—Andy gave in. 

She moved her hand away, feeling Miranda arch and stiffen in protest. Before she had a chance for commentary, though, Andy was curling her fingers around the waistband of Miranda’s pajama pants and pulling. “Lift,” she said into Miranda’s stomach.

Miranda lifted, and Andy wrenched the pajamas off her. Upholstery be damned. Miranda could afford to clean a chair. Andy wrapped both hands around Miranda’s hips, pulled her forward on the chair, and dove in nose-first. 

She should have eased into it, probably. Miranda’s whole body jerked and she made a sound that was caught somewhere between a shout and a gasp, and Andy _ very _ nearly pulled back to apologize, but then she felt Miranda’s hands on her shoulders. Definitely not pushing her away. And not pulling—not exactly. But clamped tight. 

Andy knew _ exactly _what that meant.

_ Full speed ahead, _ she thought gleefully. 

She lapped and licked, used her lips, used her teeth. Used every trick she’d learned in the past eight years. She kept forgetting to do anything with her hands, but Miranda didn’t seem to mind. 

“Oh—_ Andrea—” _ She kept saying Andy’s name and it was making her absolutely fucking _ crazy _ , and the third time it happened, Andy came. She just _ came _, no hand down her pants or anything. Didn’t even have her thighs pressed together. Holy shit.

It threw off her pace for a second, made her stiffen and shudder then go slack, and she felt Miranda’s hands tighten on her shoulders. “_ Don’t _ ,” she gasped. “Don’t you _ dare _ stop.”

The order brought Andy back to herself so sharply that she almost ruined it and laughed, but she caught Miranda’s rhythm once more. And: “Oh, yes, like _ that,” _ Miranda’s voice suddenly like honey, and her whole body was rippling, and tensing, and Andy considered for the tiniest, _ weensiest _ moment that she might just stop, just for a second, just to see if Miranda would beg, but no. Not this time. Because Andy was suddenly absolutely, positively certain that there would be another time, and another, and another. 

So Andy kept going, like _ that _, exactly as Miranda clearly liked it, tongue sliding and slipping, and then Miranda let out a long, low groan, and arched her back, and for a second she was absolutely motionless and as taut as a violin string; and then she shook apart and blew Andy’s entire fucking mind.

Andy generally knew when to stop moving her tongue, when to lighten the pressure, when to pull away. She was, all things considered, pretty decent in the sack. But the _ sound _ and _ taste _ and _ feeling _of Miranda Priestly coming like a bomb going off melted every circuit in her poor, overly-aroused brain, and so Miranda actually yelped a little and jerked away at Andy’s still-lapping mouth. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Andy gasped, putting her forehead against Miranda’s thigh.

She felt Miranda’s hand slide into her hair. Heard Miranda’s quick, panting breaths. “I think,” Miranda gasped after a moment, her nails gently scraping Andy’s scalp, “that your apology today is as unwarranted as you claimed mine was last night.”

Andy laughed. She couldn’t help it. She looked up at Miranda: sprawled and lax, head thrown all the way back, limbs loose and akimbo in the chair. Her pajama pants were still caught around one ankle. 

Slowly, with effort, Miranda tipped her head back up until she met Andy’s gaze. Her cheeks were bright pink. Her eyes were shining. 

“You are,” Andy said, meaning it more than she’d ever meant anything in her entire life, “absolutely _ cosmic.” _

The smile in Miranda’s eyes migrated to the corners of her mouth. 

“Andrea,” she said, “I believe the feeling is mutual.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (in case you were wondering, I am very much a participation-trophy girl, and darned proud of it XD )


	12. Chapter 12

Hey, love

Is that the name you’re meant to have

for me to call? 

_ Gravity (Vienna Teng) _

_ *** _

Andy thought she had probably gotten her gold star, after all. 

“You’re still _ dressed _,” Miranda panted, angling her head so she could see Andy. 

Andy propped herself up on her elbows, pushing the duvet out of the way. “So I am,” she said cheerfully. “Another?”

“Andrea,” Miranda groaned, closing her eyes. “I may actually be physically incapable.”

“No!” Andy exclaimed. She nipped lightly at Miranda’s inner thigh and practically wriggled with joy when Miranda jumped and made a sound that was half startled cry, half moan. “You’re not saying there’s something you _ can’t do _ . Not Miranda _ Priestly _.” She rested her chin on Miranda’s hipbone and grinned up at her.

Miranda’s blue eyes flashed. 

“Well,” she said primly. “When you put it that way...”

Andy grinned wider and got back to work. 

***

It was after noon when Andy finally left the townhouse. _ Floated _ out of the townhouse, was more like it. After Miranda really _ had _ reached capacity—and Andy had to cheer for herself a little at that point—she’d curled herself into the big spoon, pushed away Miranda’s drowsily-seeking hands, and stroked Miranda’s hair— _ her hair!— _until Miranda fell asleep. Then she’d carefully climbed out of bed, crept down to Cassidy’s room and dressed, and reached for her phone to call an Uber.

She had eight missed calls from the night before—from her parents, from Cassidy. Four from Trixie. Ten unread text messages. She saw that the most recent one was from her mother. She was definitely, _ definitely _ not ready to deal with _ that. _

She let herself out with the key she still hadn’t returned to Miranda and walked to the corner to wait for her Uber. It was sunny, and warm, and Andy thought the air had never smelled sweeter.

Her phone buzzed. Trixie again. _ You’re on TMZ _, the message said.

Andy made a face and put the phone back in her purse. Nothing was going to ruin this day for her. She had just bedded Miranda Priestly, and everything else could wait.

***

“Wake up,” Trixie commanded. 

Andy cracked one eyelid. “Ugh.” Then “Hey!” as the covers were yanked off of her. Trixie bounced onto the bed.

“Wake _ up _ ,” she said again, positioning her mouth directly over Andy’s ear. “I saw you! I saw you _ so much _ ! And I want to hear about it _ tout suite, _sister.”

“What time is it?” Andy croaked. 

“Time for you to pry your cute little butt out of bed and give me deets,” Trixie said brightly. 

Andy sat up. Her body ached. Her brain felt like oatmeal.

“It’s dark in here,” she said, squinting at Trixie. The light that snuck through the curtains was the watery gray of early evening. She hadn’t meant to sleep for so long. 

“Yeah, I’ve been waiting for you to wake up for _ hours _,” Trixie said, hopping off the bed. She snagged something off the nightstand and tossed it at Andy.

“Hey—ow!” Andy fumbled for the Twix bar and missed it. It hit her squarely in the chest. “Thanks.”

“Five minutes,” Trixie said as she closed Andy’s door behind her. “Your wine’s waiting.”

Andy made it to the couch in four. “It’s a weeknight,” she said, accepting the glass Trixie handed her and taking a sip. She winced at the overlay of wine on chocolate.

“What’s your point?” Trixie patted the cushion beside her. “Listen, I’m just excited that I was wrong.”

“Me too, generally,” Andy said, taking another bite of Twix as she sat, “but what, specifically, are you wrong about?”

Trixie held both arms out and bowed her head in capitulation. “It appears Miranda may not be yanking your chain after all.”

Andy let herself smile a little. “Oh yeah? And what, pray tell, brought you around?”

“Maybe the fact that she was parading you around the red carpet like a Miami WAG.” Trixie looked positively gleeful. “You’re in _ Star _ today, did you know? You’re in _ Dazzle _.”

Andy had given in and clicked the link to the TMZ article Trixie had sent just before she’d fallen asleep. _ MIRANDA PRIESTLY HOOKS NEW MINNOW _. And a photo of the two of them on the museum stairs, Miranda gracefully smiling, Andy bearing an uncanny resemblance to a great white with constipation. 

“Yeah,” Andy said, her good mood darkening. “I saw.”

“Why are you so—oh.” Trixie grimaced. “Your parents.”

Andy unlocked her phone, clicked on her mother’s text message, and held it out to Trixie. Trixie leaned forward and read, then winced. “Yikes.”

“Turns out there’s something to be said for...for _ hugger-muggery, _” Andy said.

Trixie held up a hand. “No,” she said. “You’re a grown woman.”

“She’s my _ mother _.” 

“Yeah, do you think _ my _ mom is crazy about these?” Trixie stuck out her arms to show off the riotous tangle of tattoos that twined up to her shoulders. “Or my hair? But it’s _ your _ life, Sachs.”

  
  


“Hair is different than a—” A what? Relationship? Tryst? Tumble in the sheets? God, Andy hoped it was more than that. “A _ thing _ with _ Miranda. _”

“Tell that to my mother,” Trixie said. “When I got my first tattoo, she cried for a week. Have you ever been on the receiving end of a Chinese guilt trip?”

“Uh.” Andy frowned. “No.”

Trixie gave her a knowing look. “I’ve met your parents. They’ll come around.”

“I don’t think so,” Andy said. “They still haven’t forgiven her for ten years ago.”

“Good thing they’re not dating her, then.” Trixie sipped her wine. “How was the sex?”

“Ah.” Andy felt her face heat up. “It was...it was good.”

Trixie’s grin was positively feral. “Awesome.”

“She’s...” Andy gestured helplessly with the Twix. “I’m...” _ Falling _. Down the rabbit hole. Head over heels. Way past infatuation.

Trixie patted her knee. “I know,” she said.

***

She’d sent an email to Miranda after she’d left, not wishing to wake her with a text. _ Heading home. Thank you, Miranda. This weekend? _

The reply was waiting for her when she finally went to bed at eleven. _ Saturday. _

***

She called her mom the next day after work.

“I’m fine, Mom,” she said, when her mother immediately launched into what was basically a verbal elaboration of her text message.

“I just wish you had _ told _ me,” Kim said tightly. 

“Mom.” Andy put her hand over her eyes. “Would it have made a difference?”

“Well...” Kim sniffed. “To have found out from _ Facebook _...”

“I told you I was going to the gala,” Andy pointed out.

“You didn’t say who you were going _ with _,” Kim retorted. “It’s not healthy, Andy. After what she put you through—”

“That was a _ decade _ ago. I’ve practically forgotten.”

Kim’s voice rose. “Well, I haven’t,” she snapped. “Do you know how much I worried about you, working for that woman? Sending emails in the middle of the night? Calling me crying every other day?”

“Mom...”

“I know you’re an adult.” Kim’s voice was steely. “I know you’re smart. And responsible.”

“Thank you—”

_ “But _ .” Kim cut her off. “I also know you have a tendency to—” she sniffed again—“ _ attach _ yourself to people who don’t appreciate you the way you deserve.”

Andy gritted her teeth. “Miranda isn’t—”

“I don’t know her,” Kim continued, “but Andy, I really, really hope she’s...” She stumbled a little. “Good to you.”

Andy took a deep breath. If she’d been five years younger, she might have barked that _ I know what I’m doing _. Defended herself. Fought back. Might have even given her mother the cold shoulder for a day or two. 

She thought about Miranda, about her misguided efforts to help Cassidy’s career. About how Miranda had cried at dinner. She remembered what Miranda had said: _ You never know in how many ways you can fail until you become a parent _. She considered, and she chose grace.

She nodded, even though she knew her mom couldn’t see. “Thanks, Mom,” she said. 

Kim was silent for a moment, as though she was startled at Andy’s response. 

“Well,” she said after a moment, sounding partly put out, partly mollified. “You’re welcome, I suppose.” Another pause. “And when you get a chance, Andy, I need you to talk to your sister about her plans for Thanksgiving.”

Andy smiled a little. 

“Yeah,” she said. “Will do.”

***

“You didn’t warn me about the tabloids,” Andy said, as Miranda slid into the town car beside her on Saturday evening.

Miranda gave a blasé little shrug. “Was it anything you couldn’t handle?”

“At work? No,” Andy said. “My parents, on the other hand...” She rolled her eyes.

“Ah.” Miranda’s posture stiffened a little. 

“They’re fine,” Andy said, scrambling. She cursed her traitorous tongue. “I mean, as fine as can be expected.” _ Nope _. That wasn’t any better.

Too late. Miranda’s lips were pursed into an unhappy little scowl. “I imagine,” she said bitingly, “that I did very little to endear myself to them when you were my assistant.”

Her frankness startled Andy. “Um,” she said, struggling to find a response. “I mean, I don’t know. It was a long time ago.”

“Mm.” The scowl deepened. 

Fuck. “Miranda...”

Miranda turned and looked out the window. “Do I complicate your life, Andrea?”

Andy’s eyebrows shot into her hairline. What on _ earth _ kind of a question was that? 

Miranda’s head whipped around, her eyes wide in affront, and Andy realized she’d said her thought out loud. 

“Aaaghhh,” she said lamely.

Miranda glared. “_ Andrea _.”

“I mean!” Andy put both hands palm-up in a _ what-do-you-expect _ gesture and tilted her face heavenward. “Come on, Miranda. Of _ course _ you complicate my life. You show up with—with designer gowns, and _ events _ , and my bosses are emailing me asking me if we need _ security detail _ at the office—” this had a been a real question from Rashad—“not to mention you’re just, you’re just _ you—” _

No answer. Andy risked a glance at Miranda. 

Miranda’s face had gone pale. She no longer looked insulted, or coldly angry, or even closed-off and stony. She looked, if anything, a little bit ill.

_ God _. Could Andy possibly dig herself any deeper? She’d been looking forward to a nice dinner with Miranda, with maybe some surreptitious under-the-table groping at whatever intimate, overpriced restaurant Roy was taking them to, and because she’d opened her stupid mouth, it seemed very likely that Miranda might tuck and roll right out of the back of the car. 

Andy buried her face in her hands. “Oh, I am really screwing this up,” she said. 

“I prefer to know,” Miranda said. Her voice had become very quiet.

“_ No,” _Andy groaned into her palms. “I didn’t mean—What I meant was, yes, Miranda, yes. My life is more complicated with you in it.” She sat up and turned to Miranda, trying in earnest to catch her gaze. “But it’s also so, so much better than it’s ever been.” 

Miranda’s expression flickered, but she stayed silent. Andy hesitated, then leaned across the seats and pressed an experimental kiss to the angle of Miranda’s jaw. 

“I like your complications,” she murmured. 

She felt Miranda’s little hitch of breath. Felt her stiff posture relax a little. She leaned into Andy’s lips, just the tiniest bit, just enough that Andy was emboldened to trail her lips down Miranda’s neck. This earned her a soft gasp, and Miranda’s hand fluttered over and landed on her thigh.

“In fact, if you’d like to...” Andy nipped lightly at Miranda’s earlobe. “_ Complicate _anything before we get to the restaurant...”

Miranda groaned. _ Not _, Andy was amused to note, with pleasure.

“You have,” she said, pulling away and rolling her eyes, “an uncanny knack for terrible jokes, Andrea.”

Andy grinned. “I know.”

“At _ precisely _the wrong times,” Miranda added.

“Know that too.” Andy planted a messy kiss on Miranda’s cheek.

Miranda wiped it off and made a face, which was so unexpectedly precious that Andy’s heart actually went pitty-pat. “Andrea...”

But at that moment the car slowed, pulled up to the curb, and stopped. Miranda arched an eyebrow at her.

“Wait,” she said.

***

There was precious little groping at dinner. Miranda had booked the chef’s table, which was literally in the kitchen of the restaurant. The food was phenomenal, of course, but the chaos around them rendered conversation nearly impossible. Andy’s entire outfit smelled like roasted garlic and seared Kobe beef by the end of the meal.

“Thank you, Miranda,” she said, in the car on the way home. She patted her stomach contentedly. “That was amazing.”

Miranda looked pleased. “I’m glad,” she said. 

“Someday soon I’ll take you out to _ my _ favorite restaurant,” Andy said, unable to resist baiting Miranda just a little. “Spaghetti counter in Queens.”

“Spaghetti counter,” Miranda hummed, and slid a hand over the back of Andy’s neck, and pulled.

“Oh,” Andy said stupidly, when Miranda’s lips met hers. 

“What on earth,” Miranda murmured against her mouth, “is a spaghetti counter.”

“You know what?” Andy said, shivering as Miranda’s kisses migrated down her throat. “It doesn’t even matter.”

***

Miranda had made up for the lack of groping at dinner. In _ spades _. By the time the car pulled up to the townhouse, Andy’s top was half-unbuttoned, her skirt was hiked up around her thighs, and she was pretty sure she was sitting in a puddle. Miranda had spent the entire ride kissing Andy senseless, running her hands over nearly every inch of Andy’s now-thrumming body, and deftly swatting away any attempt Andy made at reciprocation.

“_ Wait _,” she kept saying.

“Oh my _ God _ you’re going to kill me,” Andy moaned as Miranda’s hand slid up her thigh, barely brushed her soaked underwear, and then skated away again.

“You keep saying that,” Miranda growled in her ear. “Haven’t you heard of the boy who cried wolf?” And in one quick movement she withdrew, smoothing her clothes into place as Roy put the car into park. 

“Fuck.” Andy fumbled with her buttons and barely managed to yank her skirt into place when Miranda’s door opened. She was pretty sure her hair was a mess. She couldn’t even look anywhere _ near _ Roy.

“Good night, ladies,” Roy said, his voice dry, pleasant, and completely neutral. Consummate professional. Thank God.

The lock had barely clicked before Andy was on her. Miranda’s back hit the closet door with a thud and Andy was shoving her sweater up, hands on her stomach, her sides, her breasts. “_ Oh,” _ Miranda gasped, arching. “I told you it would— _ ahhh— _be better to wait.”

“_ Tease _,” Andy gritted out. She yanked Miranda’s blouse over her head and tossed it into the foyer. She would have said more, but she decided her mouth would be put to much better use in other ways. 

Miranda’s hands were on her shoulders, in her hair, on her neck. Andy unhooked the catch of Miranda’s bra with one hand and tossed that aside, too. 

“_ Decorum _,” Miranda gasped, as Andy’s lips closed over her breast, “is not—”

“Decorum?” Andy growled, bending to scrape her teeth over Miranda’s nipple and feeling fierce glee when Miranda’s hands curled into her hair and yanked her closer. Miranda’s breast was soft and hot against her cheek and nose. Sweet suffocation. She sucked the nipple deeper into her mouth, flicking it with her tongue, hearing Miranda’s strangled yelp. She pulled back and went for the other one. “You call practically making me come in the back of the car _ decorum _?”

Miranda’s nails dug into her shoulder. “As though you were so _ reticent _—” Her hips jerked as Andy reached underneath Miranda’s skirt and unceremoniously yanked down her underwear and stockings. 

“Oh, no,” Andy said. She knelt and pushed Miranda’s skirt up. Gave her lower stomach a broad lick. “Absolutely not reticent. Not at fucking_ all _.” 

“_ Oh _,” Miranda breathed, and Andy felt the muscles under her tongue quivering as she licked across, up, down. As she brought her hands up Miranda’s thighs and wrapped them around to shamelessly grab her ass. “Andrea—I—” Her hands slid fruitlessly over the closet door, searching for something to keep her upright. 

“Right. Yeah.” Andy’s knees were protesting, and anyway there were, like, sixteen perfectly good horizontal surfaces in this house. Andy intended to use every single one of them. 

She stood, took Miranda by the hips, and steered her toward the library. The sight of her—lovely shoulders pale and gleaming, skirt around her waist, flushed and rumpled and gasping—flooded Andy afresh. 

“Here,” she said. She sat down on the couch and pulled Miranda onto her lap.

“I can’t—” Miranda breathed. “I’m too heavy—”

“_ Shh _ .” Andy wrapped one arm around Miranda, warm weight of Miranda’s breast in her palm. She pressed her mouth to the space between Miranda’s shoulder blades. _ Oh _. She could feel wet heat on the tops of her thighs. She parted her knees, dragging Miranda’s thighs with her, and slid her other hand over Miranda’s hip. She pressed with her fingertips into the hollow of Miranda’s hipbone where she herself was sensitive, and felt Miranda jerk and gasp. 

“_ Decorum _,” she purred into the smooth warm skin of Miranda’s back, and moved her hand between Miranda’s legs.

She would never, never, _ never _ get used to this. Not in a thousand years. Not if she got a million opportunities. She would never tire of Miranda swollen and slippery, of the feeling of her fingers sliding over Miranda’s clit, of the sound of her moans. She wasn’t tall enough to kiss Miranda’s neck, so she satisfied herself with running her tongue up and down the bumps of her spine. She stroked and rubbed, trying first one position and then another, and when Miranda gasped “ _ oh _ that’s good” she kept the angle and kept the speed and tried really, really, really hard not to come. 

She felt Miranda’s hand come down and lock around her outer thigh. “Good,” Miranda moaned again, “that’s good, keep—keep doing that, I can’t—” Her back arched and she rocked into Andy’s fingers.

Andy suddenly realized that if she parted her thighs just a little—if she tilted her pelvis up _ just _ so—“ _ oh _” as Miranda’s lovely, glorious ass hit her clit and sent electrical shocks through her entire body. Her eyes fluttered closed and she almost forgot what she was doing and then— 

“Harder,” Miranda breathed, her hips bucking into Andy’s hand.

Andy pressed harder and Miranda let out a low cry, her hips moving faster now, and her breath was starting to come in hitches, and she was so _ wet _ against Andy’s hand and she felt so _ good _ with her body pressed to Andy’s and—

_ “Ohhhhh _ .” Miranda’s body curled around Andy’s hand and she went still for a moment, and Andy wanted desperately to _ memorize _ this moment, the feeling of Miranda coming in her arms, but she couldn’t. Couldn’t, because suddenly the friction was too much, and she was coming too, at almost the same moment. 

Lights exploded behind her eyelids. She thought she might have blacked out for a moment. When she opened her eyes again, Miranda was leaning forward, her elbows braced on her knees. 

“You certainly,” Miranda gasped, “don’t want for _ inventiveness, _Andrea.” She scooted off of Andy’s lap and sprawled on the couch.

Andy laughed breathlessly. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, kid,” she said. She tipped her head back. She was still throbbing.

“I don’t know how you manage to get me into this—” Miranda gestured at her mostly-naked body, and the skirt that was bunched at her ribs—“state of undress, while you haven’t removed a stitch.”

“Hey.” Andy stuck out a foot. “I took my shoes off.”

“I’d prefer something more than shoes,” Miranda said, rolling toward Andy and reaching for her top. 

Andy caught her hand and brought it to her mouth. “I’m good,” she said, kissing Miranda’s palm. “I sort of...got caught up. I couldn’t really help myself.” 

Miranda pulled her hand away. She looked at Andy. She looked at Andy for so long that Andy’s cheeks started to burn.

“Okay, _ what _?” she said at last.

Miranda’s voice was quiet, her gaze intent. “Why do you do that?”

Andy squirmed. “Do what?” she said.

Miranda lifted her hips and smoothed her skirt into place. She took a little breath. “I do not consider myself an uncharitable lover, Andrea.”

Andy’s eyes widened. “I _ never _ thought—”

“Three times now,” Miranda said, reaching over to brush her fingertips across Andy’s knee, “you have deferred any reciprocity.” She leaned forward to keep Andy’s gaze. “Why?”

The heat in Andy’s face intensified. Miranda was doing her best to maintain eye contact, but she just. She couldn’t do it. 

“I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t—I guess I didn’t realize.”

Miranda’s fingers moved feather-light over Andy’s knee. There was a long pause, then: “You are a terrible liar.”

Andy grimaced. Her stomach felt like a sailor’s knot. “I know.”

She felt Miranda’s hand lift from her knee. A moment later, it was sliding around her waist. “Come, Andrea,” Miranda said gently. “Let’s go to bed.”

***


	13. Chapter 13

My love

I obey your law of gravity

_ Gravity (Vienna Teng) _

***

“I mean, I guess it’s possible I have intimacy issues,” Andy said to the darkness.

Miranda shifted, her head a comfortable weight on Andy’s stomach. She didn’t respond. 

Andy threaded her fingers through Miranda’s hair. “I don’t think I have intimacy issues,” she admitted after a moment.

Miranda made a noncommittal noise. Still no answer.

Andy scratched gently at Miranda’s scalp with one fingernail. “Are you asleep?”

“Not at all.” Miranda put a hand on Andy’s thigh. “I’m listening.”

It was so _ quiet _. Andy could hear her own heart thumping in her chest. 

Was it so bad, really? She’d always been attentive; she’d always made sure that whoever shared her bed went home satisfied. And if she’d enabled a few pillow princesses, so what? She _ liked _ giving. She was a _ giver, _for crying out loud. It made her happy. And so far, it had made everyone else happy, too.

Except, apparently, Miranda.

It wasn’t that she didn’t _ want _ to bare it all with Miranda, so to speak. It was just that she hadn’t had the _ opportunity _. It had felt so good—so intoxicatingly, dizzyingly good—to have Miranda pliant and moaning in her hands—and she just hadn’t wanted to give that up. Not right away. Not yet. 

She tried to remember the last time she’d really let go with someone. It had been Ilana, maybe, or Cleo. No. Even back then, she’d held herself in check. 

Christ. Had the last person to wrest away her control been _ Nate _?

Maybe she did have intimacy issues, after all. 

“I don’t like this,” Andy said out loud.

Miranda rolled over. Her gaze was steady and unnervingly incurious. “Elaborate,” she said.

Andy looked up at the ceiling. “You make me,” she started, and faltered. No. That wasn’t right. Miranda wasn’t _ making _ her do anything. 

“You’re asking questions I don’t have answers to,” she said at last.

That neutral humming noise again. _ God _ . How could Miranda be so _ inquisitive _without seeming to express the slightest inkling of interest?

_ I’m afraid of you, _ Andy thought. 

That wasn’t right either, though. She wasn’t afraid of _ Miranda _ . She was afraid of what would happen if Miranda saw her. _ Really _ saw her. Every dippy, neurotic, catastrophic part of her. That was what she feared. _ That _was what she couldn’t bear.

She stroked Miranda’s shoulder. “I’ll think about it,” she said. “Later.”

Miranda hoisted herself off Andy’s stomach and settled onto the pillow beside her. “As you wish,” she said.

Anxiety clenched in her chest. “Are you—is this okay?”

She felt Miranda’s lips press against her cheekbone. “_ Yes _,” she said firmly. “Don’t fret so.”

She _ hadn’t _ been fretting. At least, she hadn’t been before Miranda had gone and been so _ insightful _ about things. 

“Andrea.” Miranda put a hand on her chest. The sudden warmth beneath her breasts loosened the knot of anxiety a little. Not much, but some. 

“Yeah,” she said.

This time, Miranda kissed her on the mouth. “You are thinking so loudly I don’t think either of us will be able to sleep,” she said. “Stop it at once.”

When Andy turned her head, she saw a tiny smile playing at the corners of Miranda’s lips. The knot loosened a little more.

“Yeah,” she said again. “Yeah, okay. I will.”

***

Andy’s bedroom was dark. A year of being on twenty-four-hour call for Miranda and a year of depression in Boston had completely decimated her sleep health, so ever since then she’d put up blackout curtains everywhere she’d lived. She also filled the silence with white noise machines, wore a sleep mask, and put little tiny pieces of electrical tape over every illuminated electronic in the room. 

Miranda’s bedroom, on the other hand, faced the east. She had no blackout curtains, just expensive-looking sheers over expensive-looking wooden blinds. As soon as the sun rose, the room absolutely exploded with light. Andy opened her eyes to sheer incandescence.

“How do you _ live _ like this?” she groaned, rolling onto her stomach and pulling the duvet over her head. 

Miranda reached over and patted Andy’s hip absently. “Good morning,” she said.

Andy peeked out from under the blankets. Miranda was propped against several pillows, wearing a dressing gown and typing on her phone. 

“What—” Andy’s question was interrupted by her own massive yawn.

“Eight-thirty,” Miranda said, not looking up from the tiny screen. “The girls have invited you to brunch.”

Andy froze. “What?”

One eyebrow crept up, although Miranda still didn’t look over. Apparently she still didn’t relish repeating herself, even if the requisitioner of the repetition was half-dressed in her bed. “Caroline and Cassidy,” she said. As though the identity of the girls was the issue in question.

“Like—“ Andy sat up. “Today?”

“Eleven,” Miranda said smoothly.

“Gah,” Andy managed. She hadn’t talked to Cassidy since the gala five days prior. Her text message the following morning had just said _ submitting next week bish _. No mention of Miranda, no mention of Andy seeing—dating? Sleeping with?—her mother. She’d barely talked to Caroline at all. 

“Try to be a little more eloquent at brunch,” Miranda said with a sidelong glance. One corner of her mouth was tucked up in a smile that almost looked teasing. 

“I...no.” Andy cringed. “Is this going to be some shotgun face-off where they corner me and warn me that I’ll never be good enough for you?”

Miranda’s laugh was so sudden, so unexpectedly bright in the sunlit room, that Andy’s mouth fell open in shock. 

“Andrea,” she said, shaking her head, “you should know by now that it will almost certainly be the other way around.”

***

“Congratulations,” Caroline said, tipping her mimosa toward Andy. “Mom hasn’t been in _ Dazzle _ since 2012.”

“I don’t think that was my fault,” Andy said defensively. 

“Will you relax?” Cassidy pulled a shred of cinnamon roll off of Caroline’s plate and ate it. “Do you know how good this looks for her? And Runway?”

Miranda perked up. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Caroline said. “Twitter went nuts. Everyone loves that the new gay icon is Miranda Priestly.” Her voice was all dry irony. She opened her phone and slid it across the table to Andy. “She got memed and everything.”

Andy looked down. It was a Buzzfeed article, and at the top was a picture of Miranda that had been Photoshopped to look like she was riding a unicorn with a rainbow tail. She laughed. “Oh. No. You’re kidding me.” She scrolled. Halfway down the article was—

“It’s me!” Andy crowed. _ Star _ and _ TMZ _had horrified her. She was actually delighted at this one. 

“It’s her favorite website,” Cassidy explained to Caroline, who rolled her eyes extravagantly.

“There are worse things to be,” Miranda pushed the phone back over to Caroline. She looked like she was trying to hide a smile.

“So, like.” Cassidy looked at Andy over the rim of her coffee mug, blue eyes wide and innocent. “When do we start calling you Mom?”

***

Andy didn’t see Miranda for nearly two weeks after that. July was rapidly approaching, which brought Runway closer to August, which was one step closer to the September issue. Miranda sent Andy text messages early in the morning, and emails late at night, and there were three phone calls that Andy only caught because she carried her phone on her person at all times always these days; but besides that, nothing. 

It wasn’t that Miranda’s messages had any paucity of affection, although it was the peculiar, Miranda-branded affection that required some reading between the lines. It wasn’t even the lack of sex. It was just that Andy _ missed _her. 

She met with Cassidy, of course: three times that first week, and then for drinks on Friday night after two of the three papers had been submitted. The third was on hold, pending an experiment that had to be repeated. She went to work. She went home. She slept. 

And then, two Saturdays after brunch with the twins: _ Are you home? _

She texted back so quickly she almost sent _ Yrs _ instead of _ Yes. _Trixie had disappeared at nine-thirty that morning, giving only a vague “Going out” when Andy had asked what she was up to. Without her live-in activity planner, Andy had nothing to do for the rest of the day.

She didn’t get an answer after that. Until, that was, someone knocked on the door.

She actually thought it was Amazon. Missing Miranda had somehow manifested in a weird need to buy kitchen accessories, and she’d ordered a set of teacups two days prior that she was already planning to return. She opened the door and almost fell over.

“Andrea.” Miranda tried and failed to contain her smile.

“What are you—you know what, never mind, just come here.” Andy hauled Miranda inside and managed to simultaneously kiss her and kick the door shut. “Oh. Wow. If I had known you were coming over—” She kissed Miranda again, winding both arms around her neck. “I would have cleaned.”

Miranda put her handbag down on the sideboard to free up her hands. “I thought that roommate of yours would have taken care of it,” she murmured between kisses. 

Andy pulled back. “Wait, what?”

Miranda’s eyes were sparkling and Andy could tell—she could just _ tell _ —that Miranda was massively proud of herself. “Well,” she said, drawing herself up a little, “I didn’t wish to make anyone _ uncomfortable _ with a visit—” she slid her hands up Andy’s sides, beneath her sweatshirt—“so I offered a stay at the Four Seasons for the remainder of the weekend. On me.” 

Andy muffled her laughter in Miranda’s neck. “You didn’t.”

“She appeared _ beyond _ delighted.” Miranda succeeded in working the sweatshirt up over Andy’s head. Andy pulled it the rest of the way off and chucked it onto the couch. 

“We could have just, you know, gone to your place,” Andy pointed out, punctuating her sentence with a little gasp as Miranda wedged one hand under her sports bra. 

“What is this,” Miranda murmured, tugging at it, “painted on?”

“Lululemon,” Andy said, twisting away from Miranda’s roving hand and stepping behind her. She reached for the buttons on Miranda’s blouse. 

Miranda stopped moving. “Andrea.”

Andy stopped, too, her heart jumping into her throat. “Miranda?”

Miranda’s hands came up and covered Andy’s. She stood like that for a moment, still, her thumbs stroking Andy’s knuckles. Andy stared at the back of her neck, at the fine silver hairs brushing against pale skin. She bit her lip. 

Miranda turned, slowly, in Andy’s arms, until her face was two inches from Andy’s. In her heels, she was right in Andy’s sight line. 

Andy’s breath caught. She didn’t want to talk about this again. Not today. Not yet. Not now.

But Miranda didn’t talk. Instead, with her blue gaze locked on Andy’s, she reached up and cupped Andy’s face in both hands. Brought her forward. Kissed her. 

Andy was good at kissing. She’d kissed a lot, and she’d _ been _ kissed a lot. She knew how to use her lips and tongue and teeth to convey exactly what she was feeling. 

At least, she’d _ thought _ she did. She abruptly realized that everything she thought she knew about kissing was totally, completely wrong. Because Miranda was kissing her in a way that she had never in her life been kissed. 

She’d shut her eyes. She usually shut her eyes when she kissed, but she usually did it on _ purpose _. Not like this, like she was drifting away in a dream.

Miranda was transcribing things with her lips that Andy didn’t even understand. She was pulling emotions out of the fucking _ air _ . _ Motus ex nihilo, _ dear fucking lord. She felt her eyes start to sting and was she about to _ cry _ ? Was Miranda kissing her to _ Latin _ and _ tears? _

Just before Andy completely lost her mind, Miranda pulled back. She still had her hands on either side of Andy’s face. She gazed at Andy, steady and intent. 

“Andrea,” she said softly, “I see you.”

It was like she’d been stabbed through the heart. 

She took a little breath, because she suddenly felt like all the air had been sucked out of her lungs, and the stinging in her eyes got worse, and her face was heating up, and—

And Miranda was kissing her again.

Andy felt herself being guided past the couch, past the little kitchen, toward her bedroom door. She had no idea how Miranda knew which room was hers—probably Trixie, the little sneak—and she wanted to stop, wanted to tell Miranda to wait so she could at least clean up and make the place _ presentable _, but something in Miranda’s touch stopped her. 

_ I see you _, she’d said. 

She was _ here _, in Andy’s little apartment, with its dark bedroom and grubby couch and clutter. She was here not because Andy wanted her to be, but because she had chosen to. 

_ I see you _.

When Miranda reached for Andy’s bedroom doorknob, Andy let her. When Miranda steered her toward the bed and gently pushed her onto it, she yielded.

No banter this time, no sparring. Miranda worked her fingers beneath the elastic of the sports bra, and Andy wriggled out of it. Then she watched, wide-eyed, as Miranda stepped back, carefully unbuttoned her blouse, and draped it over Andy’s desk chair.

“A little more equitable, I think,” she murmured, and unhooked her bra. This, too, she hung over the chair. Then her Blahniks, and the tailored black pants, and finally the lace underwear beneath. Slowly. Carefully. Never taking her eyes off Andy.

Andy’s teeth were sunk so deeply into her lower lip she thought they might draw blood. By the time Miranda touched her again, she was actually shaking.

Her sheets weren’t Egyptian cotton. They were jersey, the T-shirt sheets that had been so popular at Bed, Bath and Beyond six or so years prior. Miranda pushed her back onto those sheets, and knelt over her, and kissed her. And kept kissing her, breasts brushing against Andy’s, until Andy was lightheaded and pulsing with love and desire. 

When Miranda reached for the waistband of her leggings, she tensed, and Miranda let go. _ Wait, _ she wanted to say, _ I didn’t mean it _. 

But Miranda just went back to kissing her. Throat. Shoulders. Neck, breasts, stomach. Until Andy’s tight, shallow breaths had turned into long and languid moans. The second time Miranda reached for Andy’s leggings, she lifted her hips and let Miranda pull them off. 

_ I see you _. 

Miranda didn’t belong here, in Andy’s room, in Andy’s life. 

And yet.

And yet she was kissing her way down Andy’s stomach, her hands moving over Andy’s skin almost reverently, as though Andy was something to be cherished. She was stroking Andy’s thighs apart with hands that felt like silk, like velvet. She was—she was—

_ Oh _.

Andy floated. 

She pulsed, she rippled, she thrummed. Miranda’s mouth was everywhere at once, it was a blaze, a glow, a whisper. Her body sang. She ascended. She _ soared. _

A light before her closed eyes, as bright as the sun. Brighter, brighter still in her dark room. 

_ Miranda _.

She came in a burst of radiance, the light behind her eyes detonating into a thousand glittering stars. She was dimly aware of someone crying out in her voice. She pulsed for what felt like hours.

She breathed. She had lungs, and legs, and lips. No longer a swirl of galaxies coming apart in Miranda’s hands. She opened her eyes.

Miranda was looking at her. Trepidation on her face. Apprehension. Andy couldn’t say a word except “Here,” and pulled at Miranda’s shoulders.

Miranda pulled herself up and laid beside Andy, on her jersey sheets. She pulled the quilt Andy’s grandmother had made up over both of them.

Andy closed her eyes. Felt Miranda’s lips on her cheek. Heard the soft whisper of Miranda’s words in her ear.

“Cosmic,” Miranda murmured.

Yes, Andy thought.

Cosmic, indeed.

***

  
  



	14. Epilogue

Priestly CM, Aranovitz KL, Nawaz-Majad R, Mooreland AK. _ Activity of JeRT kinesin on regulation of neuronal microtubules. _ Exp Cell. 2017 Oct 2;158(3):948-53.

I didn’t do it on my own. No one does, in academia, I’m learning. It took a whole slew of people, not least of whom was Andy. And months of revisions, and countless hours in front of the computer, and sleepless nights. It was a busy year. Many more to follow, I'm told. 

She’s in Paris when the journal comes in the mail. She’s been sending me texts from the shows, surreptitious snaps she’s taken with her phone. Valentino, whom Mom loves. Miu Miu, which she hates. Or used to. I don’t really know any more, with my mother. She’s full of surprises these days.

I send her a photo back: the article. Print too small to read. She FaceTimes me less than five minutes later from the women’s room, eyes bugged out and grinning, doing that whisper-shriek thing she does when she gets excited. 

“Mom’s gonna be pissed if you miss it,” I tell her.

She laughs. “Those days are over, Cass.” She’d skipped two days of shows for the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, a long ramble down the Champs-Elysees. 

“You’re having fun.” It’s not a question.

Her eyes are shining. “Yeah,” she says. “But I’m sorry I’m not there to celebrate. I’m proud of you.”

I shrug. “When you get back,” I say. 

“How’s Caroline?” She’d gotten an early flu and had to stay back, this year. 

“Sick. Grumpy.” I want to tell her what I’ve found in my mother’s house. It was stashed in a desk drawer behind her personalized stationery. I swear I wasn’t snooping—I was looking for the spare key to Caroline’s apartment. 

A little black velvet box. Gold trim. Of fucking course I opened it. 

It isn’t one of Mom’s old ones. I know all of those. She’s got them stashed in her armoire, three enormous diamonds with yellow gold bands that she never wears. No, this one is smaller. A princess cut, or something like it, with a halo of tinier diamonds around it. No ornamentation on the platinum band. Andy likes sparkle, not extravagance. I was so shocked I almost dropped it. 

I wonder how long it’s been back there, tucked away, waiting. I wonder when she’ll ask. _ If _ she’ll ask. She’s always been weird about Andy. 

I think she will, though.

I don’t tell her, of course. That would mean a fate worse than death, knowing my mom. Although she does sort of owe me for the Cell thing.

“I should go.” There’s a noise from somewhere offscreen, and maybe someone else has entered the bathroom. The screen goes dark for a second: bad connection.

“Okay, okay,” I say. She’s going to hang up, but I’m jubilant about the article. I’m excited about the ring, too, okay? And I want to say _ something. “ _Andy.”

Andy blinks back to the screen. “Yeah.”

“She’s stupid about stuff sometimes,” I say.

“What?” Her brow furrows in confusion.

“She didn’t tell us she loved us until we were, like, eight,” I say, feeling my heart pounding a little in my chest. If my mother knew I was saying this, she’d _ kill _ me.

Andy’s cheeks turn pink. “Okay,” she says.

“I’m just saying, I hope you know,” I say. “She really does. Love you.” Now I’m blushing, too.

The grin on Andy’s face is so wide it threatens to split her face in half. “God, Cassidy. You’re so embarrassing. Shut up.”

“You shut up,” I say, feeling like a twelve-year-old again. Then: “But seriously. Don’t let her get away with it.”

Andy shakes her head, still grinning. “I won’t. Don’t worry.”

“Okay. I’m hanging up.”

“Bye, Cass,” she says. “See you when we get home.”

  
  


***

[ _ Gravity _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ULXgJ18xuY)

[ _ Vienna Teng _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ULXgJ18xuY)

Hey love,

Is that the name you're meant to have...

for me to call.

Look love,

they've given up believing,

they've turned aside our stories of the gentle fall

But don't you believe them.

Don't you drink their poison too.

These are the scars that words have carved

on me.

Hey love,

that's the name we've long held back

from the core of truth

So don't turn away now...

I am turning in revolution.

These are the scars that silence carved

on me.

This is the same place.

No, not the same place

This is the same place, love.

No, not the same place we've been before.

Hey love,

I am a constant satellite

of your blazing sun.

My love,

I obey your law of gravity.

This is the fate you've carved on me...

Your law of gravity...

This is the fate you've carved on me...

On me

**Author's Note:**

> here’s a portrait of Cassidy I did: https://thejanewestin.tumblr.com/post/190731813863/cassidy-all-grown-up-in-my-fic-gravity


End file.
